


Half a Chance

by ratherunnecessary



Series: when your eyes meet mine, we show it [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Texting, emojis as a legitimate form of communication, gratuitous pastoral themes, more angst than is strictly necessary sorry, unrequited Katsuki Yuuri/Yuri Plisetsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 01:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 55,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10503372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherunnecessary/pseuds/ratherunnecessary
Summary: Yuri has never cared about anything as much as he cares about skating. Until, one day, that changes.Or, Viktor falls in love with Yuuri, Yuuri falls in love with Viktor, Yuri falls in love Yuuri, Otabek falls in love with Yuri, and somehow everything turns out okay.





	1. BEFORE

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. This is officially the longest thing I've ever written. It was so much fun, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Some FYIs: there are some elements of reality I twisted to suit my ends—I disregarded the Olympics entirely, chose to let the skaters have more free time than they would normally, dramatized the GP series announcement, fiddled with some timings, upped some stakes (a skater likely wouldn’t attempt 5 quads in a GP qualifier)—because it’s fanfiction and at the end of the day I want to have fun.
> 
> I did do as much research as I was able, but if you know a ton about St. Petersburg, Kazakh culture, skating, etc., and there’s a horribly jarring error somewhere, please message me on here or [twitter](https://twitter.com/jstanxietythngs) and let me know!
> 
> There are chapter-specific tags/warnings in the end notes of each chapter. If there's something else you think it should be tagged as, or if you have a question about the content and would like a chapter summary, feel free to message me as well. I'm happy to oblige.
> 
> -
> 
> title is from [dizzy by jimmy eat world](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybZbOvzmKRE) / [check out the accompanying playlist here](http://justanxietythings.tumblr.com/post/159128948306/half-a-chance) / [see art by tosquinha here](http://justanxietythings.tumblr.com/post/159128930116/half-a-chance-a-yuri-on-ice-fic-yuri)

 

**00\. BEFORE**

* * *

 

The whole goddamn mess started, Yuri thinks much later, when he cried at their wedding.

-

**v-nikiforov** : YURIO  
**v-nikiforov** : Congrats!!!!!!!!  
**v-nikiforov** : (party popper emoji)(party popper emoji)(party popper emoji)(party popper emoji)(dancer emoji)(dancer emoji)(dancer emoji)(dancer emoji)  
**v-nikiforov** : I’m so proud  
**yuri-plisetsky** : thx  
**v-nikiforov** : you did SO well  
**v-nikiforov** : the axel is looking great  
**v-nikiforov** : 4F landing unusually wobbly  
**v-nikiforov** : but so much to celebrate!!  
**v-nikiforov** : what a send-off!  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ok yeah next time, just stick to congrats

**katsuki.yuuri** : oh my god, congrats!!!  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ty  
**katsuki.yuuri** : what a skate. You feeling good??  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i think so  
**katsuki.yuuri** : Viktor cried  
**yuri-plisetsky** : omg  
**yuri-plisetsky** : no way  
**yuri-plisetsky** : thank you for sharing that with me  
**yuri-plisetsky** : it’s better than any possible gold medal  
**katsuki.yuuri** : even a gold at Worlds that beats Viktor’s record for youngest ever first win??  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ...nah you’re right  
**yuri-plisetsky** : that feels pretty fuckin good  
**katsuki.yuuri** : it’s weird to not be there but you held it down  
**yuri-plisetsky** : any time (thumbs up emoji)  
**katsuki.yuuri** : (thumbs up emoji)  
**katsuki.yuuri** : we’ll see you in just a few weeks!  
**yuri-plisetsky** : 5 weeks but who’s counting

-

(But when he genuinely thinks about it, he realizes it started much earlier than that.)

-

“Pack the Armani,” comes Mila’s voice.

Yuri startles, thwacking his head on the underside of the bed. “Ouch!” he yelps, then, “For fuck’s sake, Mila!”

Mila is standing in the bedroom doorway, laughing openly at him when he crawls out, rescued dress sock in hand, covered in probably a decade of dust. Yuri swipes his bangs out of his face with one hand and lobs the sock at her with the other. Mila snatches it out of the air.

“Oh god.” She wrinkles her nose. “Have you ever even _thought_ about sweeping your room, Yuri Plisetsky?” She holds out the sock between her thumb and forefinger.

Yuri grabs it. “What are you even doing here?”

Mila sweeps past him to seat herself on the bed. “Making sure you pack the Armani. Vitya will be very upset if you don’t put the ‘best’ in ‘best man.’” She crosses her ankles, arranges her hands artfully, and puts on a magnificent Lilia sneer. “Yuri Plisetsky! You represent not only yourself and your team, but also _your country_ wherever you go. I will not allow you to shame all of us with your willfulness!”

Yuri throws the sock again. Mila lets out an undignified squawk when it hits her right in the face. “If she’s also giving that talk to Yakov, I can live with it,” he tells her, turning back to his suit bag.

Mila shrugs. “She probably is.”

Yuri does a final sock count, then steps back to assess. “I was already taking the Armani, just so you know. I might wear the Coppley, though, it’s more of a late-spring fabric...” He catches sight of himself in the mirror and his fingers immediately jump to the already-forming bruise on his forehead. “Mila, you absolute _bitch_ , look what—"

He’s cut off by Mila leaping at him from the bed. They go down in a tangle of elbows, Yuri shrieking much louder than he would care to admit. He struggles valiantly, but Mila has several centimeters and witchcraft on her side.

“The _Coppley_?” she yells in his face. “I will murder you _myself_ —" she knees him in the kidney “—if you show up to Viktor’s wedding in a _Canadian_ suit. _Fabric_ be damned, you will not _shame_ your _country_ —"

“I was _joking_ , holy shit, you are actually crazy, get the fuck—"

Mila lets him up. Yuri elbows her, Mila elbows back, and the ensuing scuffle ends with them sitting against the foot of Yuri’s bed, panting.

Yuri fingers the bruise on his forehead gingerly. “In six months,” he says after a moment, “I’ll be taller than you and you won’t be able to pull that shit anymore.”

“In six months,” Mila replies, “Viktor will be married, he and Yuuri will be living in here in Russia, and who knows what horrors that will unleash.”

Yuri genuinely, actually can’t think about it. Viktor, married? The only thing stranger will be having Yuuri practicing with them every day. Both impending events are beyond comprehension.

Mila elbows him again, more gently this time. “You might actually have to confront your long-standing Katsuki crush.”

Yuri goes from irritated to incandescent with anger so quickly he feels like his head might explode. “For the last _goddamn_ time,” he screeches, flushing immediately at the desperate sound of his own voice, “there is no crush and there never has been! Professional admiration does not count!”

No one lives down their teenage crushes, but Yuri carries the eternal tribulation of 1), watching his former—FORMER!!—childhood crush and idol marry his (basically) elder brother, and 2), having made the grave mistake of telling Mila last year when he lost gold to Viktor and silver to Yuuri at his second Grand Prix. He will carry both regrets to his deathbed.

Mila turns her giant cow eyes on him. “Mila,” she says, sticking her face in his, “do you think the Katsudon has a high enough technical score to make it to the GPF this year? Mila, do you think he can land the quad flip? You saw how shaky he was at the Trophée. Mila, do you think I should hug him if he wins? Mila, do you think Yuuri will challenge me to another dance-off now that he beat me? Viktor better keep him from drinking too much at the gala; I don’t care that he won gold.”

“You—" Yuri tries to tickle her but Mila snatches both his wrists.

“But!” she gasps. “Does Otabek know his only competition for your affection will soon be out of the game? Does he know that his worthy devotion may soon be reciprocated?!”

Yuri lets out a wordless shriek and kicks at Mila. She’s too nimble, but he tries nonetheless, punctuating every word with another strike. “There! Is! Nothing! Romantic! Between! Otabek! And! I!”

“You can lie if you want. Unrequited crushes are cute on a fifteen-year-old, but less so on a seventeen-year-old,” she says.

Yuri wrenches out of her grasp. “Please,” he scoffs. “The Katsuson’s crush on Viktor is legendary, and he was way older than me,”

“You’re forgetting one very important detail.”

“Which is?”

“Yuuri is marrying Viktor.”

Yuri stands. “Whatever.” He takes a very deep, steadying breath. “If you help me cover this bruise, I will consider not murdering you in your sleep.”

Mila’s laugh is needlessly hearty. “Yura. We all know nothing would stop you from doing so if you really wanted to.”

That, Yuri thinks as he and Mila look through his concealer collection, is exactly the kind of reputation he wants to have.


	2. HASETSU

**01\. HASETSU**

* * *

**mila+baba** : ur wearing the Armani suit right  
**mila+baba** : this is a v special occasion, wear the Armani  
**yuri-plisetsky** : FINE  
**mila+baba** : the blue pocket square too  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ugh  
**mila+baba** : who knows, you might actually cry when you witness true love and commitment  
**yuri-plisetsky** : unfollowed, blocked, reported

-

Viktor and Yuuri had each written their own vows. 

Yuri knew this months before, because Viktor would text him every other day asking Yuri’s opinion on each line. _Do you think it’s ok to say you woke me up or is that too much of a_ Sleeping Beauty _reference_??? he texted Yuri one night in late March, a full two months before the wedding, while Yuri was out with Mila after she’d broken up with Nick for the second time—which meant it was likely 3 a.m. in Hasetsu. Yuri’d texted back _yes it’s too much_ and then _stop asking me about this!!!!!_ , followed by three breathing fire emojis. Viktor had sent back a single teary-eyed emoji.

Because Yuri knows Viktor, knows how his past is littered with failed relationships, knows that he has never loved anyone the way that he loves Yuuri, he expects Viktor to spend every moment prior to the wedding in a slowly-intensifying state of hysteria. Of course, knowing Yuuri as well, it should have occurred to him that Yuuri would be freaking out too. But he doesn’t realize until he arrives in Japan two weeks before the wedding.

Viktor meets him at the airport and draws him into a hug that’s big even by Viktor’s standards. 

Yuri tries to wriggle out of it immediately. “Get your hands off me, Viktor Nikiforov,” he snaps, but Viktor doesn’t pull back until he’s ready. He holds Yuri at arm’s length.

“My god,” he says. “You’re tall.”

Yuri pulls away. His head is level with Viktor’s chin now. “I know. It’s weird. Don’t bring it up.”

Viktor takes his carry-on. “How was the flight?” 

“An eternity,” Yuri says and tugs his beanie lower. He doesn’t even want to think about the state of his hair.

“I like it longer,” says Viktor. He leads Yuri through the airport. “It makes you look older. Suave.”

Yuri grimaces. “Like you. My god, you’re vain.” Viktor only smiles and claps him on the shoulder.

“There’s so much to tell you, Yurio,” he says.

“Don’t call me that,” Yuri says reflexively.

Viktor guides him through the several trains and a taxi, talking the whole time. He details the guest list, his and Yuuri’s tuxes, the venue, all the time he’s spent with the Katsukis over the past month, how much he’s looking forward to being in St. Petersburg full time after the wedding, how he knows that Yuuri will miss Japan but it will be better for both of them to be in one city year-round, and on and on and on. He barely pauses to draw breath and out of habit, Yuri tunes him out and watches the city blur into the mountainous, green countryside that he remembers from his first visit, almost two years ago. He films a bit of the changing scenery, and sends it via Snapchat to Otabek.

The track curves, and then suddenly the ocean is there, winking in the fading light. Viktor breaks off, and they both watch in silence. 

Viktor hums. “It’s a shame you missed cherry blossom season. My favorite time of the year.”

“I remember it. Bad pollen. I was sneezing so much I could hardly skate.”

“Speaking of! My god, I’ve been chattering so much I haven’t even said congratulations. In person this time. With no caveats.”

Yuri lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He’d been congratulated by countless people at this point. But to hear it from Viktor himself... “Thanks,” is all he can say.

Viktor nods, and they watch the sparkling line of the ocean twist and reform in the distance.

“I do miss it,” Viktor says.

“I know,” Yuri says crossly, “of course you do.” They’ve never discussed this—never said the ‘R-word’—and Yuri realizes he really, really doesn’t want to. “Jesus. Do you think I’m a moron?”

“No, I—" Viktor cuts himself off. “I’m at the point where old injuries are—my knee—"

“I _know_.” Permanent disability is only a worry for athletes with a life off the ice. Yuri understands, but he doesn’t have to like it.

They’re both quiet for a few moments, then Viktor sits up straighter. “It was the right decision. To go out on top. To stop while I’m still happy. To end the season by getting married.”

He’s fiddling with his ring. Yuri pulls his knees up and hooks his chin over them. “Sure. And now you’ll always be at the ready to defend the Katsudon if I need to kick his ass on the ice. Non-metaphorically.”

“I don’t know why you still pretend to dislike him, Yurio,” Viktor says. “We know you don’t.”

“You’ll never catch me admitting to that.”

Viktor shrugs, clearly unbothered. “It’s true nonetheless. Are you looking forward to seeing Otabek?”

Yuri picks at his dry knuckles. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Nothing. He’s your plus one, is all.”

“I can’t believe you’re on me about this, too. He’s a _friend_.” A friend to whom Yuri can complain about Viktor and the Katsudon endlessly, which he’s certain will be necessary. Is necessary. Right this very second.

Viktor drops into his familiar _who, me?_ stance, raising open palms and adopting an innocent expression. “I am simply making conversation here. Retract the claws.”

Yuri grumbles under his breath but silently concedes. A few minutes later, Viktor starts talking about something unrelated, and Yuri is relieved to tune him out again.

-

The onsen is a maelstrom of family, decorations, cooking, noise, and insanity. The Katsukis allow him to spend the first day getting over his jetlag, but then he’s put to work. Mari shows him how to fold towels and Hiroko teaches him to make dumplings via Viktor-as-translator. Even though it’s small wedding, it seems like a new guest arrives every day. The onsen overflows.

Viktor always winks at him whenever he sees Yuri helping out, and makes a moment to hug him or clap him on the shoulder. Yuuri is on the edge of every interaction, flitting in and out of rooms, greeting people, checking his phone, kissing Viktor distractedly. Aside from his warm greeting upon Yuri’s arrival, Yuri barely sees him for more than a couple moments at a time. 

It’s exhausting. At the end of the day, after his soak in the hot springs, Yuri crashes harder than he does during the season. He’s never seen so many people and yet said so little. He would expect to feel lonely, but it’s actually... nice. To not be at the center of attention. To not have to be ‘on’ all the time.

Then, five days before the wedding, because of some complication with his flight, Phichit calls to say he won’t get in until that evening. There’s a jumble of debate and schedule-rearranging, and somehow, at the end of it, Yuri finds himself accompanying Yuuri to his final tux fitting. 

Yuri is hustled into the back of the Katsuki sedan and he absolutely does not think about what Mila said. Instead, he pulls up his hood, looks out the window and tries to practice his breathing exercises. (Yakov’s newest fixation is emotional self-regulation for his athletes. Yuri really doesn’t see how it’s possible to make competitive figure skating any less stressful.) Toshiya and Yuuri converse quietly in Japanese up front. The shingled roofs are so different from St. Petersburg’s dramatic domes. And it’s _quiet_ ; Yuri counts maybe twenty people walking during the fifteen-minute drive. There’s no getting around the magnitude of the impending transition. Hasetsu is a town—St. Petersburg is the second largest city in Russia.

“Admiring the architecture?” asks Yuuri.

Yuri meets Yuuri’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I guess. It’s very calming. Different from St. Petersburg.”

Yuuri inhales slowly through his nose and looks out his own window. “That it is.”

Toshiya drops them off, exacting a promise from Yuuri to keep a close eye on the time. Yuuri leads upstairs to the tiny office, where the tailor and what seems like his entire family greet them effusively. Yuri makes it through another flurry of Japanese greetings and introductions, but finds a chair in the corner by the pocket squares before too long. He checks his phone compulsively. No new messages. Instagram—nothing. The tailor is showing Yuuri the cummerbund. Twitter—totally dead. Yuuri and the tux are sent into the dressing room. Still nothing—and then a text from Otabek comes in just as Yuuri re-emerges.

The room slowly empties as the tailor kneels to pin the pants’ hem. Yuuri pulls off his glasses, sliding them into his pocket, examining himself in the mirror. Yuri unfolds himself from the chair and comes forward to get a better look. 

“You look nice,” he says, and, to his own surprise, he means it. Yuuri looks amazing. Off the ice, he’s always looked much younger than twenty-five, and on the ice, he looks... ageless. But the sharp lines of the tailoring somehow manage to meld the two, his eyes sharp and intense under his pushed-back hair, without his glasses to soften them.

Yuuri’s biting his lip at his reflection, but at Yuri’s compliment, he looks over at him. “You think?”

Yuri sticks his hands in his hoodie pockets. “I guess. The cut is great.”

Yuuri translates this for the tailor, who smiles and rises. He and Yuuri exchange a few words, gesturing, and Yuri catches ‘ _arigato_ ’ a couple times, right before the tailor nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. Yuuri goes back to considering his reflection, tugging at the collar and fiddling with the cuffs.

“Oh!” he says suddenly. “There’s a box in my bag over there—grab it for me, will you?”

Yuri obliges, pulling out the small velvet box. Two silver cufflinks gleam at him when he pops it open. Each has a tiny skating blade etched on top, just three simple lines that suggest the shape. Yuri runs a thumb over one of them. 

“Nice, aren’t they?” Yuuri says. “Viktor gave them to me, in December. For our one-year anniversary.”

In Yuri’s experience, Viktor has never been particularly good at gifts—touch is his preferred form of affection—but for some reason, Yuri’s not at all surprised. Because it’s just like Viktor to absorb Yuuri’s communication style and reflect it back at him.

Yuri surrenders the box only when Yuuri holds out a hand. The cufflinks wink as Yuuri puts them on with quick, certain motions.

Quite suddenly, Yuri realizes it’s the first time they’ve been alone since the ‘15 GPF. Every other time since, Viktor’s been there. Right now, he’d be chattering endlessly, filling up the air with his relentless conversation. Instead, the room is silent save for the whisper of Yuuri’s cuffs as he fusses with them. 

Yuri smiles, reveling in the quiet, but he sees his face in the mirror and schools his expression quickly. He pulls his hood up further. Just then, Yuuri he huffs out a breath, straightening his shoulders. 

“There. Will I do?”

“You won’t bring disgrace down on the motherland, if that’s what you’re asking,” Yuri responds.

“Always my top priority,” Yuuri says gravely, and smiles.

-

Yuri’s hiding in his room back at the onsen when he remembers the text from Otabek.

**otabek-altin** : are the trains as complicated as they seem?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : no they’re super straightforward  
**yuri-plisetsky** : there are english maps right near baggage claim  
**otabek-altin** : Ok good  
**otabek-altin** : I’ve only ever been to Nagano, in ‘15  
**yuri-plisetsky** : and you came away with gold then  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ill do my best but you shld be aware that there’s no way this trip will compare  
**otabek-altin** : I only left the hotel to go to the rink so I’m sure this will be better.  
**otabek-altin** : isn’t it odd that most people travel to sightsee?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : yeah wtf  
**yuri-plisetsky** : thats so fuckin weird  
**otabek-altin** : When I retire, I’m going to go back to every place I went for a major championship and actually see it  
**yuri-plisetsky** : christ thats so many  
**yuri-plisetsky** : make it every place you medalled at  
**yuri-plisetsky** : much more manageable  
**yuri-plisetsky** : what is it, like 2?  
**otabek-altin** : 4  
**otabek-altin** : worlds in Shanghai, 4CC in Taipei, 4CC in Gangneung, worlds in Helsinki  
**otabek-altin** : Also, fuck you  
**yuri-plisetsky** : hahahahahahahaaaaa  
**otabek-altin** : We can’t all be the boy wonder of Russia  
**otabek-altin** : the only worthy successor to Viktor Nikiforov  
**yuri-plisetsky** : get fucked  
**otabek-altin** : See, this is the benefit of having no homeland contemporaries  
**otabek-altin** : I’m only competing against myself  
**yuri-plisetsky** : sounds nice  
**yuri-plisetsky** : sounds lonely  
**otabek-altin** : sometimes, I guess  
**otabek-altin** : it’s worth it  
**otabek-altin** : ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
**yuri-plisetsky** : that emoji is so creepy to me  
**yuri-plisetsky** : god  
**yuri-plisetsky** : it’s smiling  
**otabek-altin** : ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
**otabek-altin** : It’s a good emoji, Yuri  
**yuri-plisetsky** : well i dont like it  
**otabek-altin** : ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
**yuri-plisetsky** : STOP  
**otabek-altin** : Ok I have to do laundry  
**otabek-altin** : and pack  
**otabek-altin** : Should I bring a swimsuit??  
**yuri-plisetsky** : yes  
**yuri-plisetsky** : the water’s cold but not too bad  
**otabek-altin** : Ok  
**otabek-altin** : See you soon  
**yuri-plisetsky** : (thumbs up emoji)

-

The peaceful feeling he gets from the fitting with Yuuri and the conversation with Otabek lasts for awhile. He goes for a bike ride through town, even, down to the ocean, stealing the Katsudon’s bike in lieu of his usual workout. Leaves his phone at the onsen and everything. His life as been so nonstop since—well, the beginning of the season, really. The ocean air floods his lungs, and—god, it’s so nice. It’s so, so nice. He watches the sun set and consigns a miniscule part of his heart to sympathy for Viktor.

He gets back to the onsen just as Phichit arrives, and chaos descends once again.

Dinner feels twice as crowded. Phichit sits between Yuri and Viktor and has the entire Katsuki clan in stitches with story after story in his broken Japanese. Yuri catches maybe a quarter of it and covertly tries to translate more of it on his phone. The few sentences he manages to contribute seem to take twice as long as saying anything in Russian, or English, even. And—yeah, Yuri knows he should know more Japanese than he does. He fucking knows that. He really doesn’t need it thrown in his face. 

He spends the rest of the meal fuming silently. It’s a relief to go to bed, even if he falls asleep scanning Instagram.

He wakes up to a text from Otabek.

**otabek-altin** : Boarding my Fukuoka flight. See you soon!

Yuri calculates quickly: an hour twenty-five for the flight, an hour at the airport, two hours for the trains... Otabek will be there sometime after lunch, then. So he has to occupy himself for the next four to five hours.

It turns out to be pretty easy. Mari snags him right after breakfast. 

“I need to do about fifteen kilos of laundry. Can you help me hang the sheets?”

Yuri’s learned by now that Mari phrases her orders in question form just to seem more agreeable. He assents nonetheless and spends the morning in relative silence interrupted only by Mari’s occasional correction. It’s quickly revealed that hanging soaking wet cotton sheets is utterly exhausting work and Yuri’s shoulders and arms are aching by the time lunch rolls around.

It’s just him, Hiroko, Phichit and Yuuri at lunch. Viktor and Toshiya are meeting Otabek and Chris at the train station, and everyone else is otherwise occupied.

“So, Yuri,” Phichit says (in English, thank god). “How’ve you been?”

“Fine,” Yuri says. Hiroko’s made some sort of braised fish with sweet soy and pickled plums. It’s delicious.

“Has the gold at Worlds sunk in?”

“I guess. Congrats on Four Continents.”

Phichit laughs. “It’s Yuuri who deserves praise! He beat Otabek by twelve points and me by twenty-seven.”

“I know, I saw.” On the heels of his incredible win at 4CC, Yuuri’s decision to skip Worlds baffled Yuri to no end. If anything, Viktor retiring was all the more reason for Yuuri to have competed in Helsinki.

As if reading his mind, Yuuri says, “I figured that after a win like that, the only good follow-up would be my own wedding.”

Phichit and Hiroko laugh. “Viktor’s always banging on about life and love, so I’m not surprised you’ve caught the bug, too,” Phichit says. He elbows Yuri. “I think you could have taken him at Worlds.”

Yuri raises an eyebrow at Yuuri who only shakes his head. “There will be plenty of chances for that.”

“You’re very certain.” Yuri says. “Marriage might not suit you. I’ll bet you you won’t win gold against me this season.”

“I’m not taking that bet,” Yuuri says.

“Scared?”

“Petrified.” Yuuri sips his drink and returns to his meal.

He offers no further commentary. Yuri can’t comprehend it. Out of nowhere, every bone in his body is raring for a challenge. “So you agree, you think I’m better than you?”

“Yuri, you know it’s not about being ‘better’ than anyone,” Phichit scolds.

“Of course it is. Why else are we ranked and scored? Why else is bronze worth less than gold?”

“Sure,” says Yuuri, infuriatingly calm. “But winning gold doesn’t make someone a better skater. It just means they had a better day.”

“Which means they _are_ a better skater! It’s only the good days that matter!” Yuri snaps.

“Come now, Yuri, leave it,” Phichit says.

“No,” says Yuri. He grips his cup to keep his hands from shaking. 

Hiroko gets up and starts clearing dishes from the table. She murmurs in Japanese to Yuuri, who answers sharply. She shakes her head and leaves.

“What did she say?” Yuri asks. Yuuri looks at him.

“She said it’s clear you take skating very seriously. Too seriously.”

Yuri barks out a laugh. “There is no ‘too’ seriously, Yuuri. Did you forget we’re some of the top athletes alive right now?”

Phichit sighs, in a world-weary way that makes him seem much older than 22. “Life is bigger than skating, Yuri.” He gets up and leaves the room as well.

All the fight goes out of Yuri at once. He sets his glass back on the table and buries his hands in his lap. 

He looks up to find Yuuri studying him. He looks back down quickly but an itch between his shoulderblades grows as the gaze lingers, until finally Yuuri quietly says, “I know you have worked very hard to be where you are, and that skating means everything to you. Believe me, I know. And I’m not going to be that person who says you’ll feel different when you’re older, because you won’t. But you will realize that there are other things worth living for. There is a future for you off the ice.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything. Viktor has given him this talk countless times before, but everything has always come so easily to Viktor. Of course he would think so, and of course it wouldn’t occur to him that things might be different for Yuri. But delivered in Yuuri’s measured tone, it sounds different. 

He still doesn’t believe him, though.

“Cool, well. when my once-in-a-lifetime romance complete with soulmate comes along, you can say ‘I told you so,’” Yuri mutters, and leaves.

He slams the screen behind him with more force than necessary and heads for the front door of the onsen, stopping only to pull on his shoes—and runs straight into Otabek right outside.

Otabek’s chin hits him right in the nose with a dull _thwack_. “ _Fuck_!” Yuri shrieks, and stumbles away, hand flying to his face.

“Yurio!” comes Christophe’s voice. “I see you still know how to make an entrance!”

“Oh my god,” says Otabek. He’s dropped his backpack and is rubbing a chin. “Are you okay?”

Viktor pops up over Chris’ shoulder, suitcases in tow. “What’s going on?”

Otabek steps towards Yuri. “Are you bleeding?”

“Otabek is trying to incapacitate the competition.” Chris tells Viktor.

Viktor says, “Yurio, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine!” Yuri bursts out. He’s horrified to find that he’s close to tears. “Can the world give me a fucking second to breathe, please!”

Everyone backs off. Viktor shows Chris into the onsen, Toshiya following, luggage rattling over the cobblestones. Yuri touches his nose and his fingers come away bloody.

“Here.” Otabek is offering him a handkerchief. Yuri takes it and presses it to his face, as much to mop up the blood as to hide his flaming cheeks. He prays for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, and focuses on breathing evenly when it doesn’t happen.

“Pinch your nose and tip your head back,” Otabek says after a second.

“I think it’s mostly stopped.” Yuri dabs each nostril. “Yes. Crisis averted.”

“Averting the crisis would have been your nose surviving our reunion. Maybe the crisis has been dealt with. Any more would be generous.”

Otabek is grinning, widely. Yuri punches him in the bicep. “You just needed an excuse to swan in here and play white knight.”

“I can say with certainty that’s the first time anyone has ever compared me to a swan.” Otabek picks up his backpack and looks up at the swooping arch over the gate, still elegant despite its peeling paint. “Well. This is Yu-topia.”

“Oh my god—yes, here, come in.” Yuri leads him through the front doors. Chris, Viktor, and the Katsudon are all standing around chattering right in the foyer. Mari and Toshiya have clearly already taken care of the luggage.

“Otabek!” Yuuri exclaims. He comes over and hugs Otabek, and Yuri is a little surprised to see how warmly Otabek returns the embrace. “I haven’t seen you since Four Continents!”

“It’s been awhile. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. We’re so glad you’re here.”

Viktor throws an arm around Otabek. “Anything to make our Yurio happy!”

Yuuri elbows Viktor in the kidney, who immediately folds over in exaggerated agony. “Gah!”

“You’re boring our guest,” Yuuri says. “He’s probably very tired.

“I sleep better on planes than I do in my own bed,” inserts Chris. “But then, I don’t do much sleeping when I’m in my own bed!” He winks.

“Okay, we’re done socializing now!” Yuri says. He shoves Otabek towards the guest quarters with both hands. “Thank you, goodbye!”

Otabek laughs under his breath as they wind through the hallways. Yuri pushes the door to his room open and stands aside. Otabek’s suitcase already stands in the middle of the small room. A twin bed, side table, and cozy armchair make up the entirety of the sparse furnishings.

“I’m sorry about the...” Yuri doesn’t know what. Cramped accommodations? Embarrassing friends? Near-disfigurement by way of Yuri’s face?

“It’s perfect. No shoes indoors, right?”

“Um, yes.” They both toe off their shoes. Otabek eyes him.

“You’re taller, aren’t you.”

“By a full inch.” They’re eye level now.

“You grew an inch in a month and a half?”

Yuri shrugs.

“By the start of the season, you’ll be taller than me.”

Yuri scrapes a nail along the door frame. “It’s weird.”

“Are you worried about it affecting your skating? After Worlds—"

“I’m not worried.” 

“Okay.” Otabek busies himself with unpacking.

“Are you hungry or anything?”

“I ate on the train. Do you mind if I lay down for awhile?”

“Of course not. I’ll go.”

“Hey.”

Yuri turns. Otabek is standing in the middle of the room.

“Hi,” Otabek says. “It’s good to see you.”

Yuri has to smile. And when Otabek smiles too, he has to hug him.

“Hi,” he says back. _I’m so fucking glad you’re here_ , he thinks.

-

The remaining days before the wedding are blissfully uneventful. If Yuri avoids thinking about the conversation with Yuuri (and he does), he can congratulate himself on avoiding any major disasters. He's proud of his heroic effort. 

Then the wedding happens.

It starts much like the rest of the week: a flurry of activity in the morning, followed by exchanging greetings and pleasantries with countless guests. Yuri wants nothing more than to hide in the back row and make snide comments to Otabek the entire time. But of course, Otabek is much too courteous to allow that to happen. 

“Yura,” Otabek says in his infuriatingly calm way, “it's rude to hide in the back row at your best friend’s wedding.”

“They're not my best friends,” Yuri snarls. “At your wedding I'll sit in the very front row.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Otabek says before steering them to the fifth row. 

Chris saunters down the side aisle and joins them not long after, complimenting Otabek’s suit and ruffling Yuri’s hair. Yuri digs his nails into his palms. Otabek, Yuri has to remind himself, would stop him before Yuri got in a good hit.

The music starts playing, and, in a flash, Yuri remembers about the vows. 

Yuri makes it through Viktor’s unscathed, studiously ignoring the lump in his throat; Viktor’s purple prose had no effect on any of the members of the Russian team anymore. Yuri could admit, privately, that this was an exceptional effort (even with the _Sleeping Beauty_ reference), but he’d rather let Mila slam dunk him in the trash than be caught crying at anything Viktor wrote or said or did from now until the end of eternity.

He’d been so determined to be unaffected by Viktor’s vows that he hadn’t prepared at all for Yuuri’s.

“Viktor,” Yuuri begins, “my love,” then pauses. 

Yuri has to suppress his gag reflex, seeing the way Viktor looks at the Katsudon. It’s like he’s completely gone. He probably wouldn’t even notice a bomb going off right behind him. _Embarrassing._

“Viktor,” Yuuri starts again. “I woke up this morning, and realized I don’t remember my life before you. That, on its own, is unremarkable. Most skaters can probably say that.”

Beside Yuri, Chris and Otabek both nod.

“But it’s more than that. You have changed my life so completely, so irrevocably for the better, that I don’t remember myself before you. In a good way!” Yuuri adds quickly. The audience chuckles, most of them wetly. Yuri can see Katsudon’s parents weeping happily in the front row. 

“From the first moment we met, you saw the Yuuri I could be. You saw the Yuuri I didn’t even know I wanted to be. It took me a little bit of time to get on board,”—Viktor laughs a little at this—“but every day you prove your faith and love to me a thousand times over.”

The first tear, rolling leisurely down Yuri’s cheek, almost startles him. Horror at his treacherous emotions blazes through him, and then the floodgates open and he’s genuinely, actually weeping at Yuuri and Viktor’s wedding.

The Katsudon continues. “I _feel_ more like myself when you’re here. You have opened my world up in a way I didn't know was possible. I love you for that, and much more. And I am so, so proud to be able to call you my husband.”

The chapel breaks out into spontaneous applause. Viktor kisses the Katsudon’s hands, clasped in his own. Yuri surreptitiously mops his face with the blue silk pocket square, grudgingly grateful for Mila’s nagging. Chris blows his nose loudly. Yuri sneaks a look at Otabek, who is dry-eyed but smiling wider than Yuri has ever seen. Something in the pit of Yuri’s stomach flips over. 

Otabek looks over at him, and then at the pocket square. Yuri sticks his tongue out. 

The priest motions for everyone to settle. Otabek leans over to murmur, “The soldier has a heart after all.”

Yuri elbows him. “Get fucked, Otabek.” He checks his face in the reflection of his phone and erases the remainder of the evidence.

-

The reception is a whirlwind ‘who's who’ of the skating world, which eventually narrows down to Viktor and Yuuri’s close friends. Yuri skulks on the edge, sneaking champagne when no one is looking. He hates hiding it, but he knows everyone from Minako to Otabek would chide him. “17 isn’t even the legal drinking age in Russia!” Viktor the hypocrite loves to say, smiling blithely while snatching the sake out of his hand, even though he and Yuri have gotten drunk together more than a few times. Yuri can’t even consider what would happen if Yakov were to catch him.

He finds Phichit in the onsen courtyard, scrolling through Instagram. Yuri leans against a pillar next to him

“I will bet you three thousand yen that my wedding selfie has more likes than yours,” Yuri says, pulling out his own phone.

Phichit doesn’t even look up. “That’s barely any money, Yuri.”

“So? You scared?”

Now Phichit looks up. “Does everything have to be a competition with you?”

“Only things that matter.” Yuri’s all the way up to eight thousand likes, even though he only posted the photo 40 minutes ago. It’s one of his favorite selfies he’s ever taken, from the bathroom at the chapel. He misses the ease of short hair sometimes, but upping his braid game dramatically upped his selfies likes as well.

“I’m at nine thousand!” Phichit exclaims.

“What?!” Yuri hurriedly taps over to Phichit’s profile. Sure enough, his selfie with the Katsudon before the wedding is over nine thousand. Just to be petty, Yuri unlikes it. “You posted it two hours ago and it’s with the Katsudon!”

Phichit laughs and unknots his bow tie. “You should have clarified, then. I accept payment in yen, PayPal, or sake.”

Yuri grumbles but goes in search of sake. He nips a bottle from the counter inside, right beside Minako’s elbow. Phichit raises an eyebrow when Yuri presents it to him.

“This is the expensive stuff, Yuri... Probably more than three thousand yen.”

Yuri snatches the bottle back. “I’ll help you drink it, then.” He uncaps it and takes a swig.

Phichit shakes his head and laughs. “Not even a glass. Yuuri would murder me.” He takes the bottle and drinks anyway.

They pass the sake back and forth in silence for a few moments. Viktor and Yuuri emerge on the other side of the courtyard hand in hand. Yuri watches as Viktor kisses the Katsudon on the cheek, and then as both of them make their way from guest to guest, saying their good nights. The courtyard, lit only by string lights and lanterns, seems to glow around them.

Phichit suddenly waves, and Yuri sees that the Katsudon is looking at them. He quickly hides the bottle of sake behind his back. Thankfully, Yuuri only waves back, then turns back to his guests. 

Beside him, Phichit sighs morosely and reaches for the sake bottle. Yuri lets him finish it. The lights are leaving little trails behind his eyes as he looks around the courtyard. His mouth is so dry.

Viktor is holding Hiroko’s hands. Her shoulders shake as he speaks softly, then she throws her arms around Viktor.

“Will you miss it?” Yuri asks Phichit suddenly.

“What?”

“Being Yuuri’s closest friend. Before Viktor, you were the one who knew him best.”

“Mm,” Phichit hums thoughtfully. He slides down to sit against the pillar. “I don’t know if I ever knew him as well as Viktor does. Yuuri doesn’t open up to people easily. Viktor basically forced his way in.”

Yuri has to laugh at that. Viktor, who has no regard for rules or guidelines or boundaries, is entirely unparalleled in forcing his way in.

“Yura?”

Otabek suddenly looms out of the darkness beside him. Yuri startles away from the pillar and almost falls. Otabek catches him by the elbow before he can go down.

“Beka?” Yuri says, or tries to say.

“Phichit, how much has he had to drink?”

“Not as much as me, and I’m not—oh, wait.” There’s a rustling as Phichit stands up. “Yes, I am.”

Phichit and Otabek’s voices sound like they’re coming from very far away. Across the courtyard, Viktor and Yuuri are heading inside.

“Yura.” Otabek is grasping him by the shoulders. “It’s time to go to bed.”

“You’re so little fun you might as well be the Katsudon,” Yuri whines, trying to wiggle out of Otabek’s vice-like grip.

“I can live with that. Come on.”

“No. Wait.” Yuri puts his fingers to his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he says, and before Otabek can reply, Yuri is vomiting on his leather dress shoes.

-

Yuri wakes up to a dark room. He immediately feels around for his phone and finds it on the bed next to him. He checks the time: 5:13 a.m. He’s been asleep for a few hours then.

His head is pounding. 

He turns on the flashlight on his phone and sees a full glass and two pills on the bedside table. _Beka_. Yuri downs the painkillers and water in quick succession. He flops back down on the bed.

He remembers Otabek pulling him inside and into Yuri’s room at the onsen. He remembers Otabek sitting him down on the bed and making him drink a glass of water. Beyond that he blanks, but he’s in his undershirt and his shoes are clean on the floor. He’s sure he has Otabek to thank for that, too.

When his head finally stops feeling like it’s going to split open, Yuri realizes he’s not at all sleepy anymore. He is, however, still insanely thirsty. He grabs the glass, pads to the door, slides the screen open, and heads out of the guest quarters and towards the kitchen.

The onsen is ghostly in the predawn light. He refills his glass in the kitchen, drains it, and sets it on the side board. He moves away from the sink and almost trips over an empty beer bottle on the floor. It rolls and gently clinks against another bottle. 

Yuri scans the kitchen. The carnage of a good party litters the entire onsen. Crumpled streamers crunch under Yuri’s feet as he drifts from room to room. He likes the spa like this, he decides. It’s peaceful in a way it never can be during the day, filled with the bustle of customers coming and going. He feels like a ghost in an abandoned building. 

He imagines for a second that he’s the only person left alive in the world, gliding on feet that hover above the ground. He tries a _jeté_ in the hallway, landing so lightly he barely hears the impact. _Lilia would be proud_ , he thinks with satisfaction.

He turns a corner and glimpses into a room at the end of the hallway. The screen is just ajar, faint light spilling out. As he floats closer, he sees it’s Viktor’s room, the edge of the bed visible past the tatami. His wanderings have taken him into the family wing—usually locked, but someone must have forgotten.

He’s a few yards away now, and hears a sharp exhale. All of a sudden, Yuuri falls forward into view on the bed, catching himself on his hands, shoulders sweaty and shaking. Viktor follows, draping himself over Yuuri’s back, reaching down to cover Yuuri’s hands with his own. Yuuri throws his head back against his husband’s chest and _moans_ , low and long and deep in a way Yuri has never heard before.

Yuri stops breathing. They’re making love.

He can see the shadow of Viktor’s hips beyond the screen, can feel his throat close at the way they move against Yuuri’s, who sinks down onto his forearms, muffling his cries in the sheets. Viktor nestles his face in the crook between Yuuri’s shoulder and neck, whispering and licking and biting. He pulls back to kiss down Yuuri’s spine, hands smoothing over the skin.

Yuri feels like he’s grown roots. He places one hand against the wall beside him. _This can’t be real this can’t be real this can’t be real_.

Yuuri’s moans are rising in pitch. “ _Vitya_ ,” Yuri hears him gasp. “Yurochka,” Viktor murmurs, “my husband, come for me.”

Yuuri goes completely still and silent. He’s sunk his teeth into his wrist. Then his whole body shakes and he lets out a strained, “ _Ah_.”

Viktor pulls away and turns Yuuri over. They kiss, so intensely that Yuri clutches his fists involuntarily. “I love you,” Yuuri whispers. Viktor says something in response that Yuri can’t hear, but it makes Yuuri bury his face in Viktor’s shoulder.

Yuri realizes, very suddenly, that he’s going to vomit again. He backs away slowly, his lightness lost. Every small creak from the floor sends his heart into his throat. He reaches the corner, turns, and runs.

-

Sometime later, laying in bed after washing his mouth out, he comes back to himself enough to unlock his phone with shaking hands. He finds his flight itinerary back to Russia and changes it so he flies out that evening, instead of in a week. He enters his credit card info without even looking at the change fee. He needs to be gone. He needs to be gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains technically underage drinking and accidental voyeurism.


	3. ST. PETERSBURG

**02\. ST. PETERSBURG**

* * *

**mila+baba** : can you make sure they leave room for cream this time  
**yuri-plisetsky** : GOD  
**yuri-plisetsky** : your coffee order hasn’t changed in 3 yrs. just bc i fucked it up ONE GODDAMN TIME  
**mila+baba** : I like my cream and you know that  
**yuri-plisetsky** : keep ur sex life to ur goddamn self  
**mila+baba** : you’re the youngest 17 year old ive ever met  
**yuri-plisetsky** : h/o yakov’s texting

 **YakovFeltsman** : If you are late today, I will let Lilia make your schedule for all of next week  
**yuri-plisetsky** : I’m on my way!!  
**YakovFeltsman** : Let me be clear—I don’t need any of your antics right now. Vitya is back today and the Japanese Yuri is with him and I have no patience to spare!

Yuri almost drops Mila’s blonde roast with room for cream. He does drop his own cappuccino. It splashes onto the sidewalk and over his favorite black trainers but he can’t even be bothered to look.

Viktor and Yuuri are back.

That meant they’d been back in St Petersburg for several days. 

His one acknowledgement of the abrupt departure had been to text Otabek, the moment he’d gotten off the plane in Russia. He hadn’t slept at all on the flight, running the wording in his head over and over again. He had no idea how to explain. 

He didn’t even know what had happened. 

Finally, he’d kept it vague: _Hey. Something came up and I have to go back to Pita. Everything’s okay. I’ll talk to you soon._

Otabek had replied in a similar vein: _Yuuri and Viktor are really worried. But if you’re okay, I’ll let them know not to._

They’d picked up texting as normal a few weeks later, and, thank god, Otabek hadn’t brought it up.

Otabek’s relay of Yuri’s status hadn’t stopped Yuuri and Viktor from trying to contact him. But they let up after Yuri had studiously ignored every one of their attempts. Yuuri’d even emailed him. Viktor liked every single one of his Instagram posts.

And this was the beginning of Yuuri permanently training in Russia. That was the deal they had struck; while both Viktor and Yuuri had been traveling between Japan and Russia before, after the wedding, Yuuri would move to St Petersburg and train there exclusively.

“Fuck,” Yuri says. And then again, louder and with more feeling, “ _Fuck_.” And then one more time, simply because he can: “FUCK.”

He has to run to catch the train.

-

“Where’s your capp?” Mila asks the moment he shoves her coffee into her hands.

“I didn’t get anything,” Yuri snaps. He can see Yakov and Lilia across the rink, talking, but there’s no sign of Yuuri or Viktor.

“This is our last coffee day before in-season meal plans kick in and you didn’t get coffee?” Mila is aghast. She clutches her cup tighter.

“It doesn’t matter! God! Where are Viktor and Katsudon?”

“You can’t call him that now that he’s our permanent rinkmate.”

“I’ll call him whatever I goddamn want. Aren’t you going to put your creamer in?”

Mila looks sadly at their little mini-fridge in the office. “It went bad.”

Yuri huffs in annoyance. “I’m going to warm up,” he announces, and heads towards the locker rooms.

The locker room is blessedly, blissfully quiet. Yuri blares his loudest playlists through his headphones while he runs through his stretches and off-ice exercises, but lets the silence engulf him while laces up his skates and tries to formulate a game plan.

They know something’s up. There’s no avoiding it. But Yuri would rather die—painfully, publically, horrifically—then admit to the truth. Which is that he’s dreamt of what he saw at Yuu-topia almost every night since he’d been back. 

His face flames thinking about it. The Katsudon—fine, despite his protests, Yuri can fess up to a small crush there. But _Viktor??_ He’s like Yuri’s brother. Father, almost, if not for Yakov. The thought of Viktor doing—anything—everything remotely sexual should make Yuri vomit, should make him pass out, go insane, should not be even a _tiny little bit of a possibility_.

And yet.

Yuri can’t stop thinking of the intensity of it, the way they touched each other as if they would die without contact. The way Yuuri moaned his husband’s name. How Viktor called him Yura.

Yuri thinks he might actually be sick. Pure relief washes over him for a moment—finally, a _normal fucking reaction_ —and then he realizes that it’s simply because he forgot to eat breakfast.

He almost screams in irritation but settles for violently yanking three power bars out of his locker and stuffing half of one in his mouth.

Back in the rink, he skates in lazy circles as he finishes the other two. He waits for Yakov to yell at him about eating on the ice, but he’s still talking quietly with Lilia. Across the room, Georgi has his headphones in, stretching near the bleachers. Yuri balls the wrappers up and tosses them over the railing, into the vicinity of his gear. 

Mila does a slow double salchow, gliding out of it with her arms raised dramatically. “Mila!” come Yakov’s yell. “Tighten up those legs!” Mila rolls her eyes at Yuri.

“Good to know he’s awake,” Yuri mutters. He goes into his own quad flip just as the inner rink door bangs open. 

“Yurio!” The sudden jolt of hearing English pierces through the ambient noise more quickly than Viktor’s genial tenor. “Still wobbly on that flip landing!” 

Yuri cuts a hard stop, sending up a spray of shaved ice. Viktor and Yuuri stand silhouetted at the other end of the rink, both flushed from the cold air, taking up more space than should be their right. There’s something more, though, Yuri realizes. It’s like they’re both glowing, incandescent with health and happiness.

Yuri feels that scream coming back up.

“Vitya!” calls Yakov. Yuri slowly makes his way to the side of the rink while Viktor and Yakov have an emotional (Viktor) and gruff (Yakov) reunion, the Katsudon trailing behind.

Yuri reaches the entry, and hesitates. He looks for his skate guards—and finds Yuuri holding them out to him.

“Yurio,” Yuuri says, smiling, “it’s good to see you.”

He’s speaking Russian. Uncertainly, but Russian nonetheless. Yuri snatches the guards out of his hand. “I have no feeling on seeing you, as usual,” he says in English. “I hope Hawaii or whatever island you fucked off to was nice and sunny, though I’m disappointed Viktor didn’t fall into a volcano.”

“He did his best,” sighs Yuuri. “And it was Bora Bora.”

“That’s such a stupid name I can’t even think of a joke for it. Are you not getting on the ice today?”

“Consigned to cardio and off-ice exercises for at least a week.” Yuuri jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Viktor, who is showing Yakov something on his tablet. “Coach’s orders.”

“Right,” mutters Yuri. He slaps the guards back down on the ledge. “Well, then, see you.” He turns to throw himself into his drills, but Yuuri catches his sleeve.

“Wait. Come to dinner at Vik—our apartment tonight, will you? Viktor will cook. Since I really live here now.”

Yuri knows Yuuri well enough by now to read the deep anxiety behind his small smile. But he still can’t stop himself from saying, “Sorry, plans,” and turning on his heel and skating off.

-

Plans entail his last takeout meal of the off-season, eaten alone in his wing in Lilia’s palatial apartment, in front of the TV. Yuri sends a picture of the udon to Otabek’s Snapchat and pushes down the annoyance when Otabek doesn’t respond immediately. It’s already after ten in Almaty, and Otabek goes to bed absurdly early during training. He sends the photo to Mila as well, who sends back a picture of the biggest piece of chocolate cake Yuri’s ever seen. Yuri sends her seven smiling devil emojis.

He flicks through Instagram with one hand while keeping Anastasia out of his leftovers with the other. She scratches him after the third failed attempt. “Fuck!” Yuri yelps. Ana hisses at him and goes to sit primly near the balcony doors. “Don’t get mad at me because you don’t like your food,” he tells her. 

He goes back to his phone, but JJ’s gone on a posting spree and Yuri’s feed is 80% the asshole’s face. Yuri quits out of Instagram in exchange for Twitter, but this early in the season it’s fairly quiet. He tosses his phone aside in favor of the tv. Of course, nothing is on, so he flips over to Netflix and selects an American show at random. It automatically plays with the worst Russian-language dub Yuri has ever heard, and of course he has to rewind and film bits to send to Otabek.

After ten clips, Yuri supposes he’s given Otabek enough to wake up to. He’s considering rewatching _Singin’ in the Rain_ for the hundredth time (he’d defended his love of musicals to Georgi enough times to feel absolutely no shame over it) when his phone dings. He checks it to see a message from Yuuri.

His thumb hovers over it for a second. The rest of practice had gone fine, and since he and Yuuri have different trainers, they hadn’t spent much time together in the afternoon. All three of them had their work cut out for them this season: Yuri, going through puberty; Yuuri, maintaining his momentum through changing his home rink; and Viktor, transitioning from Russia’s most lauded skater to a fulltime coach. They were all entirely focused, which was a relief beyond words for Yuri. His last glimpse of them had been as they stood in the locker room, Viktor’s arms around Yuuri’s waist, murmuring to each other. Yuuri had tried to catch his eye as he stormed out but Yuri kept his gaze firmly ahead.

Yuri swipes the message open.

 **katsuki.yuuri** : Viktor says Brigade is the pinnacle of Russian filmmaking. do you agree?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : the phrase ‘pinnacle of Russian filmmaking’ is an oxymoron  
**katsuki.yuuri** : ...  
**katsuki.yuuri** : what does oxymoron mean  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i can’t believe you went to college  
**katsuki.yuuri** : tbh me either  
**katsuki.yuuri** : ok Google says oxymoron means self-contradictory  
**katsuki.yuuri** : so thats a... no?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : why are you watching Brigade when you could be watching any else in the whole world  
**katsuki.yuuri** : trying to improve my Russian ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
**yuri-plisetsky** : UGH that’s my least favorite emoji in the world  
**katsuki.yuuri** : which one is your favorite?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : (kitchen knife emoji)  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ofc  
**katsuki.yuuri** : vitya says his is the russian flag and yours should be too 

Yuri throws his phone on the floor and himself backwards onto the couch. Why was the Katsudon literally physically incapable of having a single conversation without bringing up Viktor? Why couldn’t they just have a normal conversation without Yuri being reminded of everything he wanted to forget? Why, _why_ did everything have to get so complicated?

Yuri groans, covering his face with his hands. _If everything could go back to the way it was two months ago, that would be really fucking great!!_

He’s putting in the _Singin’ in the Rain_ DVD when his phone dings again. He checks it, prepared to ignore the Katsudon, but it’s a message from Otabek.

 **otabek-altin** : Looks good. Did Yuuri cook?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : no  
**otabek-altin** : They’re not back yet?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : they are, but i ordered out  
**yuri-plisetsky** : the katsudon can’t cook for shit  
**yuri-plisetsky** : also i hate them  
**yuri-plisetsky** : and anyway the takeout japanese here is basically better than actual japanese food  
**otabek-altin** : My instinct is to disagree with you, but having never been had udon in Japan I guess I can’t say  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ...  
**otabek-altin** : but that sounds unlikely.  
**yuri-plisetsky** :  
**otabek-altin** : ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
**yuri-plisetsky** : I HATE that emoji SO MUCH  
**otabek-altin** : Why on earth do you feel so strongly about an emoji?!  
**yuri-plisetsky** : because it sucks and also have you met me

 **katsuki.yuuri** : heading to bed, see you tomorrow!

The notification of Yuuri’s text rolls down over the top of his conversation with Otabek. Before he can overthink it, he swipes down and replies.

 **yuri-plisetsky** : (peace sign emoji)

He taps back over to Otabek.

 **yuri-plisetsky** : i need to go to bed, and if i need to go to bed you should already be asleep  
**otabek-altin** : Yes sir, understood  
**otabek-altin** : Night  
**yuri-plisetsky** : night

-

Yuri loses himself in practice the next day, reveling in his body’s developing strength. It’s better than thinking about how off-balance he can feel, as if his center of gravity keeps shifting, or how much further away the ice seems every day. His jumps are suffering, and he hasn’t been able to nail the quad flip since he got back from Hasetsu. _The irony_ , he thinks grimly, remembering the ages he’d spent there with Yuuri two years ago, taking him through the mechanics of the quad salchow over and over again.

Yuuri is still in the gym with Viktor, and Yakov sends Mila and Georgi over when the morning hour’s up. He gives Yuri a significant look.

“Five more minutes,” Yuri calls.

Yakov throws his hands up, but leaves Yuri on the ice alone.

He runs through the step sequence they’re working on for his short program, and sets up a quad flip just as Viktor comes out of the locker room.

He under-rotates and lands two-footed this time. He skates a loop around the rink and sets it up again. This time he nails it, but still wobbles the landing. He digs his nails into his palm and goes to the rink’s side. Viktor hands over his water bottle.

“Don’t say anything,” Yuri growls. 

Viktor holds up both hands in his _who, me?_ gesture. He’s wearing his skates, but doesn’t move to get on the ice.

“What do you think is the problem?” he asks.

“What do you think the problem is?”

“I don’t know. It looks like your body has forgotten the jump entirely.”

Both of Yuri’s hands convulse around his water bottle. “Well, that’s helpful,” he mutters.

Viktor shrugs with one shoulder. “I think you just need to give yourself some time. It’s a good opportunity to develop your artistry and identity as a performer. To not rely so entirely on your technical skill.”

“Sure. The only problem is I don’t _have_ any time.”

“Yurio.” Yuri looks at him. Viktor’s wearing an expression halfway between exasperation and affection. “You’re 17. I’m 28. You have time.”

Yuri pushes back from the wall. “Let’s see how that theory holds up when I’m up against your husband at the Grand Prix.”

Yuri doesn’t miss the way Viktor’s face smooths out, just a little bit, as the Professional Viktor mask slides into place. (Yuri sometimes also thinks of it as Viktor’s I’m Totally Okay face.) “I’m not worried,” Viktor says. Then, “Oh!” He roots around in his jacket pocket and produces a cd. “Here,” he says, holding it out. “I think this could work perfectly for your free skate.”

“I’m not going to let you sabotage me just because you’re worried I’ll beat the Katsudon at the GPF. For the third time.”

“And I beat you last year, but who’s counting?” Viktor retorts. “I have no doubt you can do anything you put your mind to. But just—consider this. It’s something I might have skated to when I was younger.”

Yuri takes the cd and turns it over in his hand. It’s labeled “[FANTASIA ON A THEME BY THOMAS TALLIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIhZbvlCjY0)” in Viktor’s untidy all-caps. “Sounds gay,” Yuri snipes half-heartedly.

Viktor winks. “Don’t we all?”

-

Yuri loves the music.

It’s the perfect blend of melancholy and grandiose that Viktor always expertly melds. The tempo is slower, but it moves and surges in beautiful dips and swells. Yuri can already see the program coming together.

He sends Otabek a Youtube link, along with a video of the step sequence he and Lilia had been working on. Otabek sends back several thumbs-up emojis, and a selfie of himself in his new Kazakhstan gear. The lighting’s bad and the angle cuts off his face at the chin, but he looks sharp. Yuri sends him a detailed critique of his selfie technique.

Yuuri is finally back on the ice, and Viktor with him, choreographing. Yuri overhears Yakov commenting on the Japanese Yuuri’s astounding work ethic to Lilia one day after practice. It’s true—Yuuri quickly makes a reputation for himself among the Russian team as the most dedicated skater on the ice. Viktor frequently has to drag him home at the end of the day. 

Georgi and Mila both love it. Georgi expresses this by peppering Yuuri with questions, asking him to demonstrate things over and over, so much Viktor has to take him aside and tell him to chill. Mila, much more wisely, just watches. Viktor, of course, wavers between effusive adoration off the ice and a cool coach’s eye on. Yuri loves it because it means his goal of avoiding the two of them entirely is much easier. Yakov schedules everyone separately on the ice, since they’re all practicing their programs at this stage, and Yuri can go full days without saying a word to either Viktor or Yuuri. He allows himself one text conversation with each of them every other day. Evasion combined with a pretense of normalcy, underlined by all of their brutal schedules, proves extremely effective in Operation Feel Normal About the Katsuki-Nikiforovs.

Ballet days are harder, since it’s just him and Yuuri and Lilia. Lilia relishes having Yuuri in class, which she expresses by criticizing him incessantly. 

“Yuuri Katsuki!” she snaps after he’s just done a _grand jeté_ , “do you realize you have another leg that you cannot simply flop around? Move with intention or do not move at all!”

Yuuri complies instantly, but Lilia simply moves on to crucifying his hand positioning.

Yuri is completely accustomed to this backwards form of praise, but it doesn’t occur to him that Yuuri isn’t until he walks in on him crying in the studio bathroom.

“Shit,” is all he can say. Yuuri is hunched over his phone on the little flowey pouf in the corner, sniffing pitifully as he wipes his face. He jolts upright when Yuri barges in.

“Oh. Yurio,” he says stiffly. He doesn’t move, and Yuri thinks for a moment he might just get up and push past him without saying anything else. Instead, he sighs and drops his head into his hand.

“Um,” Yuri says. He’s not good with people crying. Is he supposed to hug him? “Are you okay?”

Yuuri takes off his glasses, polishing them on his shirt. “No, I’m not.”

“Should I call Viktor?”

“No!” Yuuri snaps immediately. He puts his glasses back on. “I’ll be fine. It’s just—is Lilia always so—so—"

“Mean? Yes. But it means she likes you. She wouldn’t bother if she didn’t think you were good.”

“Oh.” Yuuri sits back. “Why doesn’t she just _say_ so?”

Yuri shrugs. “She’s Russian?” He sticks hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall. “I think she thinks she is saying so.”

Yuuri shakes his head wordlessly. “You’re all a very strange bunch.”

Yuri laughs loudly, surprising himself. He slaps a hand over his mouth. 

Twin red spots appear high on Yuuri’s cheekbones. “Is that the first time you’ve heard that?” he asks, bemused.

“No, it’s just—you put it very succinctly.” Yuuri smiles and Yuri holds out a hand to help him up. 

Yuri is still laughing to himself as they gather their stuff and leave the studio. Outside, the midsummer sky threatens rain, a chill wind cutting through Yuri’s light jacket.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Yuuri asks.

“Saturday? Nothing,” Yuri says. “I’ll probably text Otabek and fall asleep.” He should clean, but he’s not going to.

“Come over for dinner then.”

Yuuri’s grinning widely when Yuri looks at him. He knows he’s caught Yuri, unless Yuri says flat out that he doesn’t want to come over. Which he won’t, of course. Because Viktor and Yuuri, being the insufferable busybodies they were, would ask an obnoxious amount of questions, and Yuri, who is shit at hiding anything in emotionally-charged moments, would have to tell them, and then Yuuri would cry and then Viktor would kill Yuri for making Yuuri cry.

“Sure,” Yuri says.

“Good. Come at eight.”

Yuuri claps him on the shoulder when they part ways at the street corner. Yuri looks up at the darkening sky. _Please help me_ , he prays. The sky simply rumbles ominously, which Yuri can only take to be the universe saying, _Fuck you, kid. You got yourself into this mess and you’ll have to get yourself out._

-

As a rule, Saturdays are blissful, alarm-free days on which Yuri tends to sleep until ten, Ana curled up against his back. However, on this particular Saturday, he’s up before dawn.

He’s not even productive. He just... sort of wanders around the apartment for several hours. He looks longingly at the freshly-brewed coffee Lilia’s left in the kitchen, but has to satisfy himself with a cup of jasmine tea. It’s too cold to sit on the porch this early so he pushes back the drapes and tucks himself into an armchair with Ana and his mug.

Lilia’s apartment is on the sixth floor which means the view of St. Petersburg is unparalleled. In the distance, he can see the Neva winking in the eternal June twilight. The streets go from mostly empty to bustling with cars and motorcycles and people.

He and Ana watch the sun rise, his hand buried in the cat’s fur. Yuri thinks of the sunset on the beach that day in Hasetsu. He wonders what time it is in Japan.

He’s drowsing in the advancing shafts of sunlight when his phone rings.

He scrabbles for it in the crevice of the overstuffed armchair and is pleased to see “Otabek wants to video chat” on the caller i.d. He runs a hand through his hair before tapping ‘answer.’

“Look,” Otabek says by way of greeting, and immediately flips the camera.

It takes a few moments for the video’s pixels to resolve into something that makes any sense. When it does, Yuri can only see what he assumes is Otabek’s floor. Then: 

“Holy shit. Holy shit, Otabek Altin, did you get a _dog_?”

The wiggling shape coalesces into a medium-sized coal-black mutt. It yips at the camera and Otabek’s hand comes into frame to stroke its ears. “I did,” he says. The camera flips again. “My friend’s cousin couldn’t keep her, so I took her in.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Sezim.” Otabek pushes his hair out of his face. “It means ‘sensitive.’”

“Did you name her yourself? That’s so...”

“Lame, I know. No, Roman did.”

Anastasia chooses this moment to stretch, knocking Yuri’s phone with one paw. “I think Ana wants to say hello.” He points his phone at her.

“Is that your cat?”

“I forget you’ve never met her. This is Anastasia. Ana for short.”

The morning light is hitting her perfectly. She sniffs the phone, finds it unremarkable, and starts grooming a paw. Yuri is so proud.

“Wow. Your cat is a superstar.”

“I know,” Yuri says. “Who will take care of Sezim while you’re traveling?”

“Roman said he would. He’ll come stay in my apartment with her. It’s a good chance for him to get away from home.”

Otabek is the only skater Yuri knows well who has non-skating friends. He has no idea how he keeps up with them. “Well. That’s nice.”

“It is. How is St. Petersburg? How are Yuuri and Viktor?”

“St. Petersburg is fine. Viktor and the Katsudon are awful.”

“What? Why?”

“They just are. They’re awful people.”

“Is this about what happened in Hasetsu?”

“No, it’s—wait, nothing happened in Hasetsu! What do you mean?”

“Whatever it is that made you leave the day after the wedding.”

“Nothing happened. I wanted to go home.”

Otabek says nothing, just continues petting the dog. Yuri drums his heels against the floor. Finally, he says, “I don’t like being around them.”

“Why?”

“They’re so... in love. It’s gross.”

“Mm. They’re very demonstrative.”

“Whatever. I don't want to talk about it. What's new with you?”

“Other than the dog?”

“Yes, other than the dog.”

“I'm working on a quad flip.”

Yuri sits bolt upright. “You're not.”

“I am. I have the bruises to prove it.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Otabek is clearly being evasive on purpose. Yuri is not about to let him get away with it. “How. Is. It. Going?!”

“Well? It's going well.” Otabek is petting the dog—Sezim—again. 

“You know that puts you on level with Yuuri’s difficulty. And close to mine.”

“Depending on the way I choreograph my program, yes.”

Yuri realizes he's drumming his heels on the floor again and makes himself stop. Something is twisting in the pit of his stomach and he's not sure if it's pride—or betrayal. 

“That's... awesome,” he says finally. 

“I'm trying not to get ahead of myself,” Otabek says. “I haven't landed it yet. That's why I didn't tell you.”

“You should send me a video.”

“Maybe. I'll ask Yanna.”

Yuri knows technically coaches have the final say on any recording during practice, but he also knows that if Otabek wanted to send Yuri a video, he could find a way. The feeling in his gut is definitely leaning towards betrayal. 

“I have to go run errands,” he says. 

“Really? Well, all right.” Otabek pushes his hair back with one hand again. “Talk soon?”

“Definitely. Bye!”

Yuri ends the call without waiting for Otabek to say farewell. His tea’s gone cold. 

He dumps it in the sink and goes to get some breakfast. 

-

 **v-nikiforov** : can you bring a salad tonight?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : sure  
**yuri-plisetsky** : any particular kind?  
**v-nikiforov** : nope! Just make sure it's big  
**yuri-plisetsky** : (thumbs up emoji)

-

The greens at the market are wilted, they're out of his favorite salad dressing, and an old woman elbows him in the kidney when he accidentally cuts in front of her in the line. 

He considers just binning the salad and canceling, but Yuuri’s self-satisfied smile keeps coming back to him. Yuri will be damned if he lets Yuuri and Viktor corner him. So he pulls it together, tosses the salad, and heads over.

-

Viktor is thrilled to have a dinner guest and goes all out. He makes _zharkoye_ , blini with an absurd array of toppings, several kinds of gingerbread, and ice cream. He shows off all the different foods to Yuri the moment he walks in.

Yuri pulls off his jacket and throws it on the couch. “Should I point out how all of this is technically off our meal plans or—"

Viktor thrusts a glass of vodka into his hands. “Hush,” he says. “We’re celebrating.”

“What are we celebrating?” Yuri asks as Viktor fills a glass for himself and a considerably smaller one for Yuuri.

“Everything!” Viktor raises his cup. “Love. Friendship. Good health.”

“He found another gray hair this morning,” Yuuri inserts.

Yuri snickers. “You’re always sappier when you feel your age.”

“Both of you are traitors,” says Viktor, wounded. “You’d think that it would blend in with the rest of my hair, but no. There it was this morning, plain as day.”

“You’re so embarrassing,” Yuri mutters. “Can we drink this, please?”

“Yes, yes, of course, to life—”

Yuri downs the vodka without waiting for him to finish. The clean burn as he swallows is as familiar as an old friend.

Viktor sighs, setting his empty glass aside. “There are many things to love about the world, but nothing will ever taste as good as Russian vodka drunk in Russia with friends.”

Yuuri sips his gingerly. “It still tastes like lighter fluid to me.”

Yuri uncaps the bottle and pours another for himself and Viktor. “You’re not wrong.”

In his countless previous visits to Viktor’s apartment, Yuri had always felt a bit like he was stepping into an art piece, with Viktor as the _pièce de résistance_. Viktor had hired the best designers to outfit the place when he’d bought it after his second consecutive GPF gold, but he’d never managed to make it feel homelike. “I travel too much,” Viktor had always said when Yuri complained.

But now, Yuuri’s touches are unmistakable. There’s only a few new pieces of furniture, but the curtains are different, there’s a cozy throw over the back of the angular sofa, and a row of succulents sit cheerily on the breakfast bar. Yuuri’s shit is also just everywhere—shoes on the floor, books spread across the end table, a discarded sweater always within reach.

 _Viktor_ also looks more lived-in, Yuri realizes as they move to the table to eat. He had loved to cook, but it was only for extravagant dinner parties—never intimate meals. Yuri is used to either eating takeout on the couch while they watch tv, or being one of the many guests at a lavish soirée. 

Viktor still is a fussy little bastard with his presentation, and Yuuri looks pointedly at the time and back to where Viktor is carefully tearing mint. All the same, Viktor snaps his dishtowel at Yuuri’s ass when sneaks a taste of the cream for the blinis. “Not yet!”

Yuuri grabs the dishtowel and whacks Viktor across the chest. “I’m starving! Unlike you and Yurio, I can’t survive only on vodka and the strength of my conviction.”

Viktor pulls Yuuri in with an arm around his waist. “Your conviction is stronger than anyone I know,” Viktor murmurs, and kisses Yuuri on the underside of his jaw.

Yuuri shivers into the touch, and Yuri decides it’s the perfect time to visit the restroom.

When he returns, all the food is artfully arranged on the table. Yuuri is setting out plates and Viktor is fiddling with the record player. The opening notes of the La bohème overture fill the apartment. Yuri can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Yuuri, now filling water glasses, smirks.

“He likes his ambiance,” Yuuri says.

“Everything is a production,” sighs Yuri. He gets silverware and arranges it at each place setting. Yuuri follows with napkins

“I used to think that he did that just so he could actually feel it,” Yuuri says. His fingers dart as he folds a napkin with quick, sharp motions. “Now, I know that he does it precisely because he feels so much.” An origami swan emerges from the cloth. Yuuri puts it at a place setting and looks up at Yuri. Whatever expression is on Yuri’s face, it makes Yuuri wrinkle his nose. “I’m sorry. That’s a little too much, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s... you’re right. About the first part, that is. He used to do that. All the time. Not anymore, though.”

Yuuri nods slowly. He’s about to say something more when Viktor comes back into the kitchen.

“Are we ready? Ah, Yura, when you fold the napkins like this, I feel bad using them.” Viktor touches the origami swan with one finger.

“Here.” Yuuri pulls out an extra napkin from the drawer and tosses it to Viktor, who blows a kiss in return.

Finally, they all sit, and Viktor carefully plates the dishes for everyone. It’s delicious. Yuri’s an adequate cook, but he can’t remember the last time he ate a homemade meal this good. _Probably in Hasetsu._

They make small talk for awhile, chatting about skating, the weather, the new sushi place near the Griboedov Canal, whether the coffee at Pyshki is actually that good (Yuri is aghast at the defamation), and, finally, the upcoming Grand Prix assignments.

“Noooo,” Yuri groans. (The vodka has continued to flow. Distantly, Yuri knows he will regret it tomorrow, but right now he only feels cozy and well-fed.) “I don’t want to talk GP.”

“Assignments come out next week,” says Yuuri.

“And since when did you shy away from a challenge?” Viktor adds.

“Don’t accuse me of shying away from anything, you moron, when you literally pined after Yuuri for months rather than just manning the fuck up and messaging him on Instagram.”

There’s a couple seconds of silence, then Viktor says, “Touché.” The corners of his mouth are deep with amusement.

“And,” Yuri continues, “it’s not as if talking about it will make a difference. They assign the competitions at random.”

“Yes, but all the same, I would really love to not have to go to America,” Yuuri muses.

Yuri can’t deny that the travel is an ordeal, but he stopped caring about it so long ago he didn’t even think about it. “If we’re making wishes, I would love to never share the ice with Jean-Jacques Leroy again as long as I live.”

Yuuri raises his cup. “I will drink to that.”

Yuri clinks his glass against Yuuri’s and drains it. “If you had competed at Worlds, JJ wouldn’t have placed.”

“Otabek got bronze, so most likely he would have been bumped off.”

Yuri shakes his head. “Beka doesn’t notice anything once he gets on the ice. JJ would have crumbled. He can’t handle being in the same building as the three of us. You and me and Otabek are like his kryptonite combo.”

“It’s true,” Viktor cuts in. “Really, only the technicality of his programs kept him from being knocked off the podium. In both Barcelona and Taipei. The poor boy is terrified of you, especially—I pity him.”

“It’s the strangest feeling,” Yuuri says, “being the intimidating one.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” says Yuri archly. “I’ve never been intimidated by you.”

“I count on that being the case for many more years. Even when the whole world is falling at my feet, I know I can rely on you and Viktor to tell me the truth.”

“As brutal, ugly, and grim as that can be,” Viktor declares. 

They all laugh. _I can do this_ , Yuri thinks. _We can be friends._

-

After that night, they fall into a routine. Yuri goes over to Viktor and Yuuri’s for dinner at least twice a week. He maintains his pretense of distance at the rink, and they don’t question him. It’s clear Yuuri is relieved to be actual friends again. When Yuri thinks about it, he feels a little bit bad.

He still can’t land his flip perfectly. It’s starting to worry Yakov as well, who has transitioned from yelling to stewing quietly over it whenever Yuri pops the jump. All the other elements in his programs are perfect. It’s just his quad flip. If he goes into it as a triple, it’s fine. But when he tries to eke out that final rotation, it ends poorly.

He’s developing a bad habit of throwing himself into the jump at random, as if he’s trying to surprise his body into correcting itself. It doesn’t work, and he knows he’s flirting with injury every time he does it. He watches Viktor stop Yuuri from doing the same thing with his flip. 

Aside from that, though, Yuuri’s programs—both choreographed by Viktor—look great. Yuri has a hard time believing that this person is the same who fell on just about all of his jumps at the Grand Prix more than two years ago now.

He regrets the quasi-compliment later (even though he never said it out loud) when Yuuri lingers after practice and watches him try the quad flip one more time. 

Otabek had finally sent Yuri a video of him trying the flip—and landing it for the first time, so Yuri also got to see the unbridled elation on Otabek’s face as he skated toward his coach, who was cheering so loudly the camera was shaking. After hugging Yanna, Otabek blew a kiss into the camera. The video ended there.

Yuri watched it over and over again during lunch. That afternoon, he fell so hard trying the quad flip in his free skate he’s certain his whole right hip will be bruised tomorrow. His arm is already blooming black and blue.

So, even though he knows he should leave it, even though he knows he should just go home, he’s back on the ice after everyone else has left. Or, so he’d thought, until Yuuri emerges from the locker room, still in his Japan jacket.

Yuri pops the jump. He skids to a stop in the center of the rink and clenches his fists so hard he draws blood. 

He hears the familiar sound of blades on ice behind him, and turns to see Yuuri gliding towards him.

“I am really, really not in the mood for a lecture,” Yuri snaps as soon as he’s in earshot.

Yuuri holds up his hands, a gesture so entirely copped from Viktor Yuri has to cough out a laugh.

“I won’t say anything. Here.” Yuuri brandishes the sound system’s remote, and hits play. The sound of Kiri Te Kanawa’s voice fills the rink—[ _Chi il bel sogno di Doretta_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiUoWCnGZTU), track number 7 on Yakov’s Skating Classics cd.

Yuuri tucks the remote away and holds out a hand. Yuri stares at it stupidly for a second. He looks up at Yuuri.

“Come on,” Yuuri says, and grabs his hand. “Let’s just skate.”

Yuri lets him pull him across the rink and into a paired 3-turn. They wind over the ice and at first Yuri is only hyper-aware of his fingers entwined with Yuuri’s. It’s like all the nerve endings in his body are suddenly in his right hand. _God, this is weird, my hand is so sweaty, just let go and walk away._

Then eventually, as they continue, the rote movement—controlled entirely by Yuuri—relaxes him. He lets the music wash over him. He can’t remember the last time he skated for pleasure without critiquing his every move.

“Okay,” Yuuri calls over the music. “Now you have to copy what I do.”

Yuri rolls his eyes at the tactic pulled straight from every novice skating class but obliges anyway. Yuuri keeps it easy, just linking random steps together, but then he starts to move faster, throwing in abrupt changes in direction and single jumps. Before long, Yuri’s racing to keep up with him and they’re both breathless with exertion and laughter.

“Nice work!” Yuuri holds up a hand for a high five and Yuri smacks it. “All right, you ready for the grand finale?”

Yuri nods. Yuuri snags both his hands, right-to-left and left-to-right, and Yuri catches on, moving into the spin with him. “Don’t vomit on me,” Yuri warns as they start to pick up speed. Yuuri just sticks his tongue out.

The rink blurs away and for a few moments Yuri can pretend he’s anywhere. The _whoosh_ of the ice and Yuuri’s tight grip on his hands feel like the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He lets himself fall into a layback, Yuuri’s weight a counterpoint.

He opens his eyes and a memory from his early skating days comes back to him.

“Hey,” he yells, “on the count of three, let go.”

“Okay?” Yuuri says.

“We see who goes the furthest.”

Yuuri grins. “Ready.”

They count down in unison: “Three, two, one—"

Yuri flies across the ice and puts out his hands just in time to stop himself from crashing into the boards. He looks over to find Yuuri on the opposite side of the rink, sprawled on the ground.

He’s getting up by the time Yuri skates over and offers him a hand up. Yuuri takes it, laughing. “I haven’t done that since Yuuko and I were kids. You don’t go as far when you’re six.”

“I know. Mila and I would always do it right at the start of practice, before Yakov made us stop.”

“Yakov doesn’t understand skating as something that ever needs to be fun, I think.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Yuri feels light and happy in a way he hasn’t in awhile. He grins widely at Yuuri, who smiles back immediately and pulls Yuri into a hug with an arm around his shoulders. Together, they head for the locker room.

It doesn’t occur to Yuri until they’re changing out of their skates that Yuuri was trying to make a point—that Yuri doesn’t think of skating as something enjoyable. Once he realizes, it’s utterly obvious. Of _course_ , that was the whole _point_ of this little episode, to indicate to Yuri—yet _again_ —how he takes skating too seriously, how he’s too intense over it, how he just needs to relax and get a life—

Anger flares in his gut, hot and sick, and he opens his mouth to make a cutting remark to Yuuri.

But when he looks over, Yuuri’s humming to himself as he laces up his sneakers. He has a small smile on his flushed face, but, when he senses Yuri’s eyes on him and looks up, it slides right off.

“What’s up?” Yuuri asks. His mouth has flattened into a line, and Yuri realizes he’s bracing himself for a fight.

The snide comment dissolves. Yuri shakes his head. “Nothing.”

They leave in companionable silence, Yuuri confirming dinner the following evening before heading off. 

He keeps seeing the thin line of Yuuri’s mouth in his head as he lets himself into the apartment. He kicks off his shoes in the entryway and goes to his room, where he sits on the bed, pulls out his phone, and calls Otabek.

He picks up right away. “Yura?”

“Hi. Are you still at the rink?”

“No, I’m heading home. Yanna let me out early since I landed the flip. What’s up?”

Yuri takes a deep breath. “Congrats. It looked amazing. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment, then Otabek says, “Thank you. That’s... That means a lot coming from you.”

Yuri lets himself fall back on the bed so he’s laying down. Ana creeps into the room and hops up to curl into his side. “I should have said so right away.”

“It’s okay, I figured you were at practice.”

“I was, but I watched it about a hundred times at lunch.”

“A hundred, hm?” Yuri can hear the smile in Otabek’s voice.

“I may be exaggerating. But you’ll never know.”

Otabek laughs, the sounds of Almaty’s streets filtering in behind his voice. Yuri tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can pick at the forming scabs on his palms, and just listens to the steady sound of Otabek breathing while he walks for a minute. Then Otabek says, “I hope we have at least one GP event together.”

“Me too. I also hope I have none with JJ.”

“I can’t disagree with that.”

“I know you’re the most upstanding person alive, but you have no idea how much life it would give me just to hear you say, once and for all, that you despise JJ Leroy.”

“I feel compelled to point out that he really has done nothing to deserve this level of hatred from you. And I mildly dislike him when I think about him, which isn’t often.”

Yuri sighs. “I suppose that’s acceptable”

“Okay, I have to go because I need to walk Sez and it’s a two-handed job. But I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“After the announcement? I’m watching with Yuuri and Viktor.”

“Good. Yes, after.”

They hang up. Yuri buries a hand in Ana’s fur and thinks, not for the first time, that he’s very lucky that Otabek decided to be friends with him.

-

Mila’s been complaining that she never sees him, so Yuri brings her along to the watch party at Viktor’s. As they arrive, Yuri finds himself tremendously relieved to be here instead of at Lilia’s apartment with her and Yakov. There’s no avoiding the constant analysis and dissection of the GP assignments when you’re with skaters, but it won’t be nearly as bad as Lilia and Yakov. Last year Yakov had even brought a whiteboard with each athlete’s previous max scores listed out and had calculated as they were announced.

At least at Viktor’s there’s _kvass_ and some sort of red bean pancake that Yuuri apparently made. Yuri wraps himself in a blanket and sprawls over the couch within easy reach of the platter. Mila sits on his feet. 

“I’m hoping for NHK and Rostelcom,” Viktor says as he and Yuuri come join them.

“That would certainly be nice,” Yuuri says.

They make small talk while the newscasters fill time with the run-up to the announcement. Mila asks about Yuuri’s plants and Yuuri starts talking about the shop he found across the canal. Yuri feels a small ball of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach. He picks at the faux fur on the throw.

Then, suddenly, the male announcer with the very blue tie is saying, “And now, just in, we have the assignments for the 2017-18 ISU Grand Prix Series. First, the men’s.”

The conversation dies immediately. The tv graphic flips and fills with the six events and the top skaters on their rosters.

“Shit,” Yuri says, and pushes Mila’s feet aside so he can get a closer look. He scans quickly. The names are blending together. He catches Phichit, Emil, Seung-Gil, but ignores all of them. The announcer is still talking. He scans, scans, scans, then:

“Yuuri, you’re on NHK.”

“And you’re at Skate Canada. With Otabek. And Trophée, with me.” Yuuri’s also leaning forward, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose.

“Well,” Viktor says. “That’s not so bad. Skate Canada is a pretty stacked roster. JJ is on there too.”

“Fuck,” Yuri says. He sits back. “It couldn’t have been Trophée, with Yuuri there too?”

On the tv, the announcer is echoing Viktor’s statement about Skate Canada.”We’ll see who comes out on top of that particular battle—the first event of the series—in a few short months. In the meantime, here are the ladies’ assignments.”

Mila moves forward to see. Yuri wraps the blanket around himself.

“Emil is likely the biggest worry in France,” Viktor is saying. “He’s landing his lutz more than half the time now.”

“It’ll be nice to be at NHK with Phichit,” Yuuri says. “I think that one will be a little easier.”

“It’ll be a piece of cake.” Viktor covers Yuuri’s hand with his own. “It’s a good setup. You’ll be fine.”

Yuri’s phone lights up as texts from Yakov and Lilia come through. Yakov is already game-planning how to rearrange his FS to counter the roster in Skate Canada; Lilia wants to up ballet to four times a week. Yuri drops his head into his hands. “Ugh,” he groans.

Mila knees him. “You’re not worried, are you? I got China and NHK, by the way.”

“I’m not worried,” Yuri says automatically. “Don’t be absurd.”

His phone vibrates again, but it’s Otabek this time. His text reads, _see you in Canada_. Yuri sends back the bear emoji, the man riding a horse emoji, and seven Canadian flags. A moment later, he sends a peace sign emoji as well. And then, because he’s petty, he looks up the gif of JJ singling his quad lutz from the ‘15 Grand Prix and sends that as well. Otabek just sends back a laughing face.

“Good,” says Yuuri. “Because it’ll be fine.”

“It’ll be more than fine. It’ll be fantastic,” Viktor says.

“Fuck all of you. I'm not worried. Stop projecting,” Yuri says, but secretly he hopes they’re all right.

-

If Yuri thought he’d worked hard in the past, he quickly realizes it’s nothing compared to this season.

Yakov schedules his days down to bathroom breaks. Lilia is turning from relentless taskmaster to full-on dictator. More than once, Yuri hears them shouting over each other in the office, arguing about the best way to optimize Yuri’s time and abilities. He’s starting to get stress breakouts—a kind farewell gift from puberty—and Twitter is becoming such a cesspool that Lilia changes his password and makes him run all his posts through her.

In his downtime, he thinks longingly about the run-up to his first Grand Prix. He’d worked his ass off, but he’d had no reputation to maintain. Now, with a GP gold and bronze (not to mention the gold at Worlds and the bronze the previous year) and Viktor out of the picture, Yuri was the one to beat.

It almost makes him feel sorry for Viktor.

Almost. Viktor hasn’t become as insufferable as Yakov, but it’s a close thing. The difference is Yuuri never complains. Yuri’s never been one to pass up the chance to pitch a fit if he really needs a break. He pulls it on a weekly basis at this point, just so he can go outside and fucking breathe for a minute. But Yuuri simply puts his head down and works.

By and large, Yuri and the rest of the skating team have kept their noses out of Viktor and Yuuri’s business. Yuri supposes (or _knows_ , he realizes abruptly, as images from Hasetsu come to the front of his mind unbidden) that the benefits of marrying your coach must make up for the cons. But right now, he’s mostly observing the cons.

Yuuri and Viktor never fight. Not in the way Yakov and Lilia did during Yuri’s junior days. Not in the way Yuri’s parents did, before. Regardless, something’s off, and Yuri can sense it every day on the ice.

Several weeks after the announcement, they’re all having one of those days where nothing is going right. It’s nasty and overcast outside, so the rink feels dim and cramped despite the huge windows. Mila’s hip is bothering her. Yakov and Georgi spend most of the day in the office. (Yuri is pretty sure Georgi is crying the whole time.) And Yuuri... Yuuri just doesn’t seem to be there.

Viktor keeps skating over to give him notes, notes that Yuuri takes with a distant, glassy look in his eyes. Yuri watches them as he runs through the new sequence for his free skate, so he sees the moment Viktor takes Yuuri’s chin and pulls his face over gently so he’s looking directly at him. Yuuri’s hand circles Viktor’s wrist. They’re talking in low voices. Viktor goes from grasping Yuuri’s chin to cupping his cheek. Yuuri shakes his head firmly and pulls away. He skates back to the center of the rink.

“Let’s go from the top,” Yuuri calls, and a moment later, his short program song fills the rink.

Yuri looks over at Mila, who raises her eyebrows—clearly she’s seen the whole thing as well. They both look back at Yuuri, who’s winding through his first step sequence, then at Viktor, who’s watching Yuuri with no expression on his face, and then back at each other. Mila shrugs, rolls her eyes, and turns away.

Yuri blows his bangs out of his face and watches Yuuri skate, his dark hair a smudge against the blinding white of the ice.

“Yuri!” bellows Yakov. He’s come out of the office with Georgi behind him. “What are you doing?”

“Taking in the scenery,” Yuri yells back. For Christ’s sake.

“Get back to work. Power stroking, three whole sets. Now,” Yakov orders.

Yuri rolls his eyes but complies, because he values his life and knows he can push his coaches only so far. 

But even as he puts his earbuds in and queues up some music, he’s conscious of Yuuri behind him, gliding across the ice like a dark angel.

-

One day blurs into the next until suddenly it’s Friday night and Yuri crashes into bed so hard he wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes he still has his shoes on.

He does the adult thing and takes his shoes off, brushes his teeth, and changes into a ragged t-shirt from a junior ice show. He goes back to bed and doesn’t wake up again until the sun is hitting him full-on in the face.

He snakes one arm out from under the cocoon of his blankets to snag his phone from the bedside table. It’s almost noon, and he has texts from Mila and Otabek.

 **mila+baba** : this is my obligatory text to tell you that i’m going on a Tinder date tonight at Sup Vino and it is your solemn duty to avenge my death if im found in the canal  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i dont avenge people who go on Tinder dates

Mila only sends back a middle finger emoji. Yuri has no idea how she hasn’t run out of terrible men to date—it’s likely because she has continents of people to choose from, what with how much they travel.

Otabek has sent a lone photo, a selfie of him and Sezim in the outdoors somewhere. Otabek is wearing a hoodie, zipped up to his chin, and Sezim has a red bandanna around her neck. _Hello from Almaty_ , Otabek texted below.

It’s the most wholesome thing Yuri’s ever seen. He tells Otabek so immediately.

 **yuri-plisetsky** : this is too wholesome for me to look at. make it go away  
**yuri-plisetsky** : it looks like a magazine ad  
**yuri-plisetsky** : aka not from this world

Otabek replies a few minutes later.

 **otabek-altin** : the world is a beautiful place and if you got out more, you’d know that  
**yuri-plisetsky** : that’s a little too much for nine in the fucking morning.  
**otabek-altin** : :)  
**otabek-altin** : you need to come to Almaty so I can show you this trail I discovered this morning. it’s beautiful.  
**yuri-plisetsky** : deal. lemme just tell Yakov i’m running off to almaty he’ll be thrilled  
**otabek-altin** : don’t you Russians abide by ‘better to ask forgiveness than permission’?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i think i used up all my forgiveness when i went to japan two years ago without telling anyone  
**otabek-altin** : Damnit  
**yuri-plisetsky** : is Yanna working you into the ground, because i’m starting to think Yakov is two steps away from grinding me straight into the ice  
**otabek-altin** : Yikes  
**otabek-altin** : no, she’s pretty balanced. she knows that if I don’t have any free time I go stir-crazy  
**yuri-plisetsky** : free time. what a novel concept.  
**otabek-altin** : do you get any time off?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : sometimes. i have to do my workout today.  
**otabek-altin** : have you done it yet?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : no  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i dont want tooooooooo  
**otabek-altin** : you’ll feel better after you do. I promise.  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i’ll only do it if you send me at least three more photos of Sezim in that bandanna  
**otabek-altin** : deal

Even with this exceptional motivator over his head, it still takes Yuri several hours to convince himself to get out of bed. He has his choice of cardio on the Saturday program, and lands on a run as the best option. Otabek sends him the first photo of Sezim as he’s lacing up his running shoes: she’s a little blurry—staying still for a photo is clearly not her strength—but she has that stupidly cute dog grin on her face.

The sun is past its apex by the time he sets off, and once the first agonizing half kilometer is over, he has to admit that it’s lovely to be outside. The wind is reinvigorating and the exercise eases up the lingering muscle soreness. He goes all the way to the next canal and pauses to watch the sun drift lower in the sky. He cues up "Fantasia on a Theme" on his phone, and runs through the steps in the strong evening light with his headphones in, gulls crying in the distance.

He’s just finished when Viktor’s text comes through, the vibration in his jacket pocket startling him.

 **v-nikiforov** : don’t forget dinner at 7:30. Don’t be late!!!

It’s almost seven now. _Oh, shit_. Yuri zips his jacket up against the chill and heads home quickly.

-

It’s finally starting to darken a bit when he gets back, and he barely has time to shower and change before he needs to head over to Yuuri and Viktor’s for dinner. He does a quick French braid to get his hair out of his face, and barrels out the door.

He jogs the few meters to the metro station and then up the stairs once he’s off the train, and he’s walking up to Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment building only ten minutes after he was supposed to be there. He’s about to hit the buzzer when the front door opens abruptly and Yuuri emerges.

“Oh! Yuuri—" he starts to say but Yuuri just grabs him by the elbow and pulls him down to the street.

“We’re going to the grocery store,” Yuuri says. “We don’t have anything in the house.”

“Okay.” Yuuri is walking rather stiffly, in a way that suggests it’s not the emptiness of the pantry that made him leave. But if Yuuri’s not saying anything, Yuri isn’t about to bring it up.

They walk the three blocks to the shop in silence. Yuuri snags a basket by the entrance and walks through the produce. He picks up three different tomatoes and puts each back down before Yuri realizes he’s not even looking at them. He does the same with the onions and then the garlic and finally Yuri can’t take it anymore.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re in such a mood?” Yuri says.

Yuuri throws an onion into his shopping basket and exhales. “I’m sorry. Viktor and I fought.”

“Oh.” Of course. “Why... were you doing that?”

“It’s a thing that happens. You fight with your significant other. It’s as inevitable as snow in Moscow.”

“Right, but I didn’t think that you and Viktor actually fought. I thought it was all sunshine and roses.”

The look Yuuri shoots Yuri makes Yuri suddenly very grateful for Yuuri’s glasses—they soften the intensity of the expression from _you’re the craziest person on earth_ to _that’s quite a foolish thing to say_. “How in the world did we manage to give you that impression?”

Yuri’s at a loss for words. “Um, I don’t know? Maybe because you always talk about being soulmates, and Viktor’s never been in a relationship that lasted more than a few months, and you love each other?!” The _because he’s Viktor fucking Nikiforov and you’re Yuuri fucking Katsuki?!_ goes unsaid.

“We don’t _always talk about being soulmates_. And good god, the reason Viktor’s previous relationships ended was probably because he _didn’t_ fight with his partners. He just left.”

Yuri absorbs that. He can’t deny that it certainly lines up with what he knows about Viktor’s dating history. He casts about for another explanation. “Then... maybe it’s because you come across as knowing what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know how you got the idea that any person in a relationship know what they’re doing,“ Yuuri says sharply, “because that isn’t remotely true. We have no idea what we’re doing. Grab me that pasta on the top shelf, your arms are longer.”

Yuri does so, tossing the box into Yuuri’s basket. “Then isn’t a good thing that you’re fighting?”

“It’s good in that it means we’re communicating. It’s not good in that it really, really sucks.”

Yuuri exhales again, and when Yuri glances over, there are tears in the corners of Yuuri’s eyes. Yuri looks away quickly.

“What are you fighting about?” he asks.

“Do you really want to know, or do you just feel bad for me?”

The back of Yuri’s neck burns with his sudden flush of irritation. “I don’t feel bad for you. God. I’m just trying to be a decent friend here. Tell me or don’t, I don’t care.”

“We fought about the usual things. Viktor feels torn between being my husband and my coach. I tell him he needs to be my coach at the rink and my husband at home, and that if I ever need something else from him, I’ll ask. Viktor doesn’t believe me, and spends a lot of time agonizing over it.”

Yuri can’t think of a single thing to say in response to that, except, “Wow.”

Yuuri continues. “The good part of living with anxiety for such a long time is that I’ve finally figured out how to say what I need to say. Viktor just works himself up into a state over it.”

“Well, that does sound exactly like him,” Yuri says.

Yuuri frowns at him. “How so?”

“Viktor does that all the time. He just becomes a mirror to other people. He reflects their characteristics back at them, whether they’re good or bad.”

For a second, Yuuri just stares at him, his jaw slightly ajar. Yuri raises his shoulders self-consciously. 

“What?”

“I’ve... just never realized that before,” Yuuri says slowly. “And I have no idea how.”

“I mean, in this case it’s a bad thing. But overall, I think it’s usually just because he wants to... I don’t know. Exist in your world? Communicate with you in a way you’ll understand? So he sees your more well-managed anxiety over balancing the parts of your life, and swiftly internalizes all of it.” Yuri shrugs, and impatiently pushes back the rogue strands of hair that have escaped from his braid. “I don’t know. I’m not a therapist.”

Yuri looks contemplative for another moment then shakes his head. “I genuinely cannot believe I’ve never thought of that.”

They stand there awkwardly in the pasta aisle while Yuuri ponders this. Then, suddenly, he pulls Yuri into a hug. Yuri freezes up for a heartbeat, then pats Yuuri on the back. That’s usually what people do, right?

“Thank you,” Yuuri says quietly.

“Stop that,” Yuri says, and pulls away.

Yuuri smiles and shakes his head. “Okay, let’s finish shopping and go home. I’m starving.”

“God, me too. Next time, don’t invite me over if you’re not going to have a hot meal waiting.”

Yuuri scoffs. “I’ll remind you that you have never once cooked for us.”

“I’m a fantastic cook. Come over anytime.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Yuuri warns, and they laugh.

-

The rest of the evening is relatively pleasant. When they come back from the store, Viktor is obviously upset, but Yuri spends an extra amount of time in the bathroom after dinner. When he returns, they’ve clearly made up. Yuuri sits tucked under Viktor’s arm on the couch as they eat ice cream and Viktor tells them about the first time Yakov found him in bed with another skater. Yuri’s heard the story many times—and Yuuri probably has too—but it’s one of Viktor’s best, full of misnumbered hotel rooms, broken condoms, near-heart attacks and tremendous amount of vodka.

When Yuri finally leaves, Viktor walks him to the metro stop. They talk about nothing in particular until they’re almost there, and then Viktor catches him by the arm.

“Thank you for what you said to Yuuri,” he says.

Instinctively, Yuri starts to deny it, but Viktor cuts him off.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t give me details. He just said you pointed out some things that made him see it in a different light.”

Yuri mulls this over. “Well. Good, then.”

“I”m grateful,” Viktor says. Yuri nods and starts to go, but stops himself. He turns back.

“You know you should just believe him, when he says he’s fine, don’t you? He’s an adult.” Yuri crosses his arms.

“You’re right,” Viktor says immediately. “You’re completely right. It’s not... easy for me to take people at their word.”

“Okay. Well, take me at my word when I say you should believe him.”

“I do, Yuri. I do.”

Yuri nods again. “Good.” They stand there in the twilight. Finally, Yuri turns to go—then changes his mind once more and hugs Viktor instead.

Viktor hugs him back instantly, squeezing Yuri tightly. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “We’re lucky to have you.”

Yuri wriggles out of the embrace. He’s not nearly as good at this as Yuuri. “Don’t cry on me, this is my nice leather jacket.”

“I’m not crying,” Viktor says, even though there are obviously tears in his eyes.

“You’re embarrassing. Goodbye,” Yuri says, and leaves.

-

 

That night, Yuri dreams about Hasetsu.

It’s happened on and off since May, but much less frequently since the season started. Yuri is almost used to reliving it: standing in the hallway, his feet glued to the ground, his lungs the only part of him able to move.

Except this time, instead of being in the hallway, he’s in bed with them.

It’s fragmented, the way dreams always are: Yuuri kissing along his shoulder, Viktor’s broad hands holding him in place. Both of them, whispering his name. _Yura, Yurachka, Yura, Yura, Yura_. He cries out as Yuuri’s relentless mouth takes him apart. Viktor laughs, low and pleased in his throat. _That’s it_ , he says. _There you go_.

Yuri wakes with a start, and the warm stickiness on his sheets next to his dick lets him know immediately that he’s come.

He silently gets up, groping for the lamp, and cleans himself off. His throat is tight and he has to breathe deeply as he wipes the sheets.

Ana curls up against his back once he gets in bed. The smallest touch feels stifling and he gently pushes her away, despite her yowls of protest.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep again, but when he does, he doesn’t dream.

-

Yuri has a hard time looking Viktor and Yuuri in the face on Monday. It’s a little bit like right when they’d gotten back. Yuri feels hyper-aware of every time either of them come into his line of sight. He turns his headphones up loud and tunes out the world.

The two of them do seem better, though. Yuuri’s fully there and Viktor’s voice is assured when he calls notes out to him. Not that Yuri is listening, that is.

After lunch, Yakov calls them together, even Yuuri. “I have something to tell you all,” he says gruffly. “Georgi will not be competing in this season’s Grand Prix.”

Mila gasps but Yuri isn’t at all shocked. Due to his previous year’s performance, Georgi had only been assigned one event, which was not at all good for an athlete of his experience. Unless he was looking to next year, it made no sense for him to compete when he had no chance of placing.

Yakov explains how this will change their schedules but shoos them all away quickly. Mila shakes her head as they walk back to the rink. “That’s a damn shame,” she says. “It’s probably his last season.”

Yuri shrugs. “I’m not surprised.”

“No,” Mila sighs, “me either if I’m being honest. It’s just sad. He could have been a good skater.”

“In another generation, maybe.”

“I think we all need a night off.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Leave it to me. I’ll get everyone on board. Saturday. Achtung Baby?”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be that kind of night.”

“It’s White Night season, anyway, we should be partying.”

Yuri had completely forgotten. “Oh my god. Thank goodness. We nearly missed it. I never would have forgiven myself if we didn’t do at least one night.”

Mila nods and throws an arm around him. “It’ll be just like old times,” she says.

“Full of alcohol and bad decisions?” 

Mila just laughs. “Yes,” she says.

-

Achtung is crowded, smoky, and exactly what Yuri needs. He shoulders his way through the mass of people, drinks in hand, searching for Mila and their table. Yuuri and Viktor are on their way—they’d taken some convincing, but Mila had made a very good case.

“None of us will make it to October if we don’t blow off some steam,” she’d said. 

Viktor had looked at Yuuri, who shrugged. “She’s right,” Yuuri said.

Viktor threw up his hands. “It seems I’m overruled. But not too much drinking, all right?”

“You have my word,” Mila said solemnly.

Yuri made no promises, so he and Mila do several shots and take multiple selfies. By the time Yuuri arrives with Viktor in tow, Yuri is pleasantly buzzed. 

Viktor’s wearing an old tee with Japanese kanji on it—clearly Yuuri’s, it stretches over Viktor’s collarbones in a way that only Viktor can pull off. Yuuri’s dressed much the same, except he isn’t wearing his glasses. His eyes look so much larger without the layer of glass, and his eyebrows look like slashes against his pale skin in the semi-darkness of the club.

“Where’s Georgi?” Viktor calls.

“Crying at home, I think,” Mila says. He’d turned down the invitation but Mila made Yuri promise they’d have a movie night with him soon.

Hugs are exchanged. When he gets to Yuri, Yuuri says in his ear, “Aren’t you technically underage? How did you get in?”

Yuri waves a hand. “They don’t check when you’re this good-looking. Did they i.d. the two of you?”

Yuuri shakes his head, a bemused look on his face.

“See? I’ve been coming here for years. Mila and I always come after she gets dumped.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“What about when you get dumped?”

“Silly katsudon, I’ve never been dumped. Who would dare?”

Yuuri throws his head back and laughs at that, loudly enough that Yuri can hear it over the pulse of the bass.

“Yurio,” Viktor calls. “I’m getting drinks. What do you want?”

“Anything,” Mila yells. “We’re going to dance.”

Viktor gives a thumbs up and heads in the direction of the bar. 

“I’ll wait here for Viktor,” Yuuri says. Mila scoffs.

“Not a chance. You’re coming with us. Yuri, take charge of your man.”

“He’s certainly not _mine_ ,” Yuri protests, but all the same, he grabs Yuuri by the shoulder and tows him towards the dancefloor as Mila blazes a trail.

“Yuri, I’m too sober for this,” Yuuri says, pulling back.

“Here.” Mila snags a leftover shot from their table and waits for Yuuri to down it. He does so, wincing. Mila takes his other arm. “Great. Let’s go!”

They sandwich Yuuri between them and beeline for the center of the dancefloor. Yuuri’s hand finds Yuri’s as they weave between plastered tourists and handsy couples, but lets go once they find a pocket of space. 

“How often do you both come here?” Yuuri yells. He’s looking a bit skittish, and—a little too late—Yuri remembers that he doesn’t do well with crowded spaces.

“Often enough that the DJ will take requests if you have any,” Mila says with a wink. Yuuri smiles, but apprehension pulls at the corners of his mouth.

Yuri starts to ask if he wants to go back to the table. As if on cue, a Beyoncé song comes on and they’re jostled on all sides as everyone screams. 

Yuuri grabs Yuri’s forearm in a two-handed grip. Yuri looks over, and he’s is wearing that distant, glassy look again.

“This was maybe a bad idea,” Yuuri says. He’s breathing shallowly.

“Fuck,” Yuri says. Mila is already dancing with a cute girl? boy? Yuri has no idea. Viktor is nowhere in sight. “Um.” He takes both of Yuuri’s hands. “Breathe with me?” _Shit shit shit this isn’t a good start_.

Yuuri inhales through his nose and out through his mouth, closing his eyes. He’s squeezing Yuri’s fingers tightly.

“ _Baby, it’s you, you’re the one I love, you’re the one I need_ ,” yowls Beyoncé, and half the club with her. Yuuri takes a few more breaths then sighs, shaking his shoulders. He looks at Yuri and smiles ruefully.

“Close call,” he says.

“Yeah,” Yuri says, “sorry, I shouldn’t have pulled you out here like that.”

“I shouldn’t have let you. We’re good.”

“Okay,” Yuri says uncertainly. Guilt is crawling under his skin. “Do you want to go, or—”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri says. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Beyoncé hits the second key change and they start to move to the music. Mila pops back in.

“Finally, you put my love on top, baaaaabyy, ‘cause you’re the one that I _loooove_ ,” she sings, pulling Yuri in, and then they’re all dancing, lights flashing overhead and underfoot.

Yuri had forgotten how good it is, being out on the dancefloor, shutting out everything except the music, losing himself in the throbbing, whirling mass. Beyoncé turns into last summer’s techno hits which meld into an amazing Robyn remix, and Yuri loses track of everything except Mila on one side and Yuuri on the other.

He forgets entirely about Viktor until suddenly he’s joining them, passing everyone shots. “ _Tvajó zdaróvye_ ,” he yells, and they all throw the vodka back.

After that, Yuri doesn’t remember much. He dances with Mila, several Russians with undercuts, an obliging American in a tank top, and, eventually, Yuuri and Viktor. They’ve kept mostly to themselves, Viktor scaring off anyone brazen enough to flirt with Yuuri (Yuuri’s a great dancer, but Viktor mostly gets by on enthusiasm and charm). He loops an arm around both of them and they dance tangled together. Yuuri’s face is right on level with his, his eyes sparkling as the lights flash. Yuri wraps a hand around his wrist to keep his balance and Yuuri steadies him.

 _Nothing beats this_ , he thinks hazily, as the new Estradarada song comes on and everyone loses their shit. Yuuri’s cheeks are very flushed and Viktor’s singing along at the top of his lungs. Yuuri catches Yuri’s eye and winks. Yuri grins in return.

No, Yuri’s pretty certain this is as good as it gets.

They stumble out of the club sometime around 2 a.m. The streets are full of White Night revelers, bodies sweaty and weaving under the pearlescent sky. The breeze feels amazing on Yuri’s overheated skin. This is the only time of year when St. Petersburg truly feels _hot_. He pulls his hair up with an elastic and turns to Yuuri and Viktor.

“We’re going to watch the Palace bridge raised,” he declares. He can’t stop moving, as if the club’s energy has followed them outside. It’s under his skin now, urging him to go, to act.

“Should we wait for Mila?” Yuuri asks. He’s slicking his own hair back, placing a hand on his forehead and closing his eyes into the cool air.

“We likely won’t hear from her until tomorrow,” Viktor says, which is true. Mila has a knack of finding her way into parties and clubs all over the city, then calling Yuri the next morning to ask where he wants to get breakfast like nothing happened. 

Viktor sighs. “Ach, Yurio, I don’t know if I can make it. It’s too late a night for me.”

“Too bad. We’re going. It’s right around the corner.”

“I’ve never seen the bridges raised,” Yuuri says.

Yuri is aghast. “You’ve never—oh my _god_ , Viktor, you haven’t taken your husband to likely the most _important_ Pita tradition? Are you even Russian?”

Viktor sweeps a hand in a broadly dismissive gesture. “We have plenty of time for all of that.”

“No, we’re going _tonight_.” The alcohol has Yuri convinced that this is the most important thing, ever, and he will not rest until Yuuri experiences it. “Yuuri has to see it.”

“The two of you go. You should see them, Yura, it’s really something.”

Yuri shrugs and turns to go. If Viktor’s going to be a wet blanket, he certainly shouldn’t come. However, Yuuri hangs back.

“Vitya, are you sure?” he says. Viktor responds too quietly for Yuri to hear, and drops a kiss on Yuuri’s cheek. He waves to Yuri.

“You both have fun!”

“Get some rest,” Yuuri says.

“Come on!” Yuri snags Yuuri’s sleeve and tows him down the street. “You really do have to see this, it’s beautiful,” Yuri tells him. Yuuri nods and smiles, and grips Yuri’s wrist in turn as they walk towards the river.

They weave through the multitudes; more people spill out onto the street as the clubs start to close, trailing smoke and fractured bass lines. Yuri love love loves this time of the year in St. Petersburg. It’s second only to Christmas in his opinion, but both share that same sense of wonder and possibility, like anything could happen. Like Yuri could be anything he wanted, if he only tried.

They’re still a few blocks away when the opening of what Yuri quickly realizes is a [Tchaikovsky piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyID7dxY4qo) filter through the noise towards them. His heart beats faster—he pulls Yuuri along.

“We’re almost there,” he calls. The crowd thickens around them, flowing steadily in the direction of the Neva, and the two of them are pulled along. The street opens up onto the embankment, and Yuri shamelessly shoulders his way through to the front of the onlookers, Yuuri bobbing along in his wake.

“Sorry, excuse us, sorry,” Yuuri apologizes breathlessly.

They reach Yuri’s favorite spot, the lion-topped ledge that hangs out over the water, just as the bridge starts to go up. It’s lined with cheery blue lights, like fallen stars. The metallic grinding of the gears is lost in the clamor as the people around them, equal parts tourists and locals, cheer. The music swells. Yuri clambers up, distantly thankful that his skater’s reflexes keep the alcohol from being too much of a hazard. He reaches back to help Yuuri, pointing out the decorative fleur-de-lises he can use as footholds. They sit, and finally they can look out.

The throng stretches out in either direction. Yuuri’s breathing is steady at his side, head tipped back against the lion’s stone flank. The shimmering energy that’s been lining Yuri’s skin since they left the club slowly settles into something deeper, glowing like the embers of a banked fire.

The boats stream through the inverted _V_ of the drawn bridge. Tourists take turns snapping photos in front of the vista. The orchestra transitions to a slower piece, one that Yuri knows he’s heard before but can’t quite pin down. The flute’s gentle notes float through the air. 

“Is that Scriabin?” Yuuri murmurs, still looking out.

“I think so,” Yuri says.

Yuuri’s eyes are so dark in the twilight, luminescent with the reflected twinkle of the bridge’s lights. His eyelashes are stupidly long, Yuri thinks, unfair in their perfect sweep, framing those wide eyes with unnecessary emphasis. It’s really quite fortunate he wears glasses. You can’t just go looking at people with eyes like that unprotected.

Yuri’s so completely absorbed in this train of thought his heart jumps straight into his throat when Yuuri looks at him. He blushes immediately, his whole body on fire, and only hopes it isn’t visible in the gloom. Yuuri smiles and Yuri stops breathing.

“Thank you for bringing me,” Yuuri says. “This is incredible.” He covers Yuri’s hand with his own.

Yuri kisses him.

Later, when everything goes to shit, when he tries to rationalize it, he will blame it on the alcohol, or the dreams, the music, the sky, any other number of things. He’ll come up with excuse after excuse and try to forget the real reason, which is because he wants to.

He wants to _so badly_ , he realizes the second his lips touch Yuuri’s, and he can’t remember a time when he didn’t. His whole life has been leading up to this moment—everything up until now bringing him closer and closer to being here, on this White Night, on the banks of the Neva, kissing Yuuri Katsuki.

It’s just a brush of skin on skin but Yuuri gasps, his mouth opening the barest amount, and Yuri presses his advantage and surges forward, actually kissing him. It lasts just long enough that the air is sharp against his face when Yuuri pulls away.

He forgets about the chill the moment he sees Yuuri’s expression.

“Yuri,” he says in a very low voice. “What. The. _Fuck_.”

Every single thought flees Yuri’s mind. He opens his mouth but it doesn’t seem to be working properly. 

“Um,” he says. His heart is racing.

Yuuri is breathing very hard. “What. The. Fuck,” he repeats.

The silence crystallizes between them. Yuri feels very sober. He still can’t think of a single thing to say.

“You need to explain and you need to explain now,” Yuuri says. His voice breaks in the middle of the sentence.

Yuri shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Yuri,” Yuuri says, and now he’s crying in earnest, tears rolling down his cheeks, clumping his eyelashes together. “Viktor is my _husband_.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t think, I don’t—I don’t know why I did—it,” Yuri says, his brain suddenly tripping over itself to overflow with words. He feels like he’s shrinking, his consciousness careening away from his body. He feels like he’s watching this happen to someone else.

“I’m so sorry if I gave you—an impression,” Yuuri says, “but it was unintentional, I promise you. I have only ever seen you as a friend.” Yuri shuts his eyes and shakes his head. _This isn’t real, this isn’t happening_. “It’s true,” Yuuri continues. “I’m sorry if it hurts you to hear it. But this didn’t happen, okay? Okay?” he snaps out when Yuri doesn’t respond.

“Of course,” Yuri says roughly. “Yuuri, I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are,” Yuuri says and takes a deep, deep breath. “I am too. Let’s go.”

They descend from the ledge in silence, and head for the metro stop on the corner. The noise of the crowd sounds like it’s coming through a radio. A few bars of the Scriabin chase after them and Yuri suddenly realizes it’s “[The Poem of Ecstasy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAnVrdQ3qFk).”

Yuri swipes his card at the metro turnstile and misses at first, his hand is shaking so badly. It feels very far away from his body. He stuffs it in his pocket and grips his phone and follows Yuuri down the stairs.

They wait for the trains in the suffocating quiet of the underground station. Yuri runs through every, any possible combination of words he could say to make things better but comes up blank again and again.

Yuuri’s train comes first. His face is drawn and pale when he looks over at Yuri. “Good night,” he says, and boards.

The train whisks him off down the tunnel and Yuri closes his eyes, wishing, wishing, wishing for nothingness to overwhelm him.

-

When he wakes up the next morning, Yuri feels like his whole body is coming apart. Every single inch of his skin is sore. His head pounds. He fumbles for his phone before remembering that he shut it off and threw it in a corner somewhere when he got home the previous night.

The previous night.

 _Fuck_.

He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can and pushes away the memory with all his strength.

“No,” he says out loud, “no, no, no, _no_.”

What the _fuck_ was he thinking? In what universe was kissing Yuuri going to turn out well? What did he expect would happen? In what fucking _world_ would Yuuri kiss him back?

“Not this one,” he says to the ceiling. God _damn_ it. He’s really fucked things up now.

Yuri cannot even think about how Viktor would react to being told. He can’t. He hopes, desperately, that he was fast asleep when Yuuri got home.

Yuri afraid that if he thinks about it anymore he’ll actually lose his mind. He pulls Ana up and buries his face in her fur. Only then does he let himself cry.

-

Lilia’s in the kitchen when he manages to drag himself out of bed in search of water, and though she’s silent, Yuri can hear the deep disapproval in the way she sips her coffee. He fills his glass with ice water and flees back his bedroom as soon as he can, reminding himself that she knows nothing.

Mila comes over later with breakfast and they eat it laying in Yuri’s bed, watching cartoons. She tells Yuri about the bartender who slipped Mila her number along with her third vodka soda. After Achtung had closed, she’d taken Mila to a house party on Vasilyevsky Island.

“Since when are you into girls?” Yuri asks, massaging his temples. He reaches for the bottle of paracetamol on his bedside table.

“Since why not? Men are garbage.”

“They are,” agrees Yuri. “Well, I suppose if there was only going to be one heterosexual on the team, it makes sense for it to be Georgi. If he even counts anymore.”

“Is he heterosexual, or just Anya-sexual?”

Yuri groans and shoves at Mila’s shoulder. “That was truly dreadful.”

“I know,” she beams.

Yuri almost tells her several times but he can’t bring himself to actually put it into words. He knows she would be furious, and with good reason. So he lays in bed and lets her card her fingers through his hair, his laptop nestled between them. He makes tea once Lilia leaves and its soothing scent dissolves a little bit of the lump in his throat.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Mila says after the fourth episode.

“Hangover,” Yuri says, intensely grateful for the excuse. Mila clucks over him and makes more tea.

Eventually, she leaves to meet the bartender for a drink—“How you can drink again after last night is beyond me,” Yuri tells her—and Yuri curls back up with Ana. He feels the misery steal over him once more like a cloud.

He wants to call Otabek. He really wants to hear his voice, but he knows he’ll start crying the moment he does, and that Otabek would want to know what was going on. And if the thought of Mila’s disappointment frightens Yuri, he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle Otabek’s.

He still hasn’t turned his phone on.

He drifts in and out of sleep until Lilia knocks on his door sometime around dinner.

“Come in,” he says.

Lilia opens the door and eyes him, swaddled in his duvet. “Are you ill, Yura?”

“Yes,” Yuri says, simply because he knows she’ll come over and feel his forehead for a temperature. She does, and her hand is wonderfully cool against his flushed face.

“I will bring you some soup,” she says, in a low tone that doubles for her sympathetic voice.

Yuri cries again while she goes to prepare it, the tears silently sliding down his face unbidden, soaking into his tee and pillowcase. He wipes his face furiously when he hears her coming back down the hallway. She places a tray with a bowl of soup, plate of toast, and mug of peppermint tea on his bedside table.

“Eat. Then sleep,” she says. She places her hand on his forehead one more time, then leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

Yuri eats one piece of toast and half the soup before he doesn’t have the energy to hold his head up anymore. He turns over, pulls the covers up, and goes back to sleep.

-

Practice the next day fucking sucks.

Yuri knew it would, but _holy shit_ , it’s actually the worst experience of his life to date. He barely gets through a fraction of either of his programs. He can’t even look in Yuuri’s direction and spends most of the morning dry heaving in the bathroom. 

Yakov is irate. “Are you such an unrepentant over-indulger that you forgot what you are here to do?” he roars after Yuri leaves the ice a second time to vomit. The rest of the skaters exchange uneasy glances; no one enjoys watching someone be chewed out by their coach.

Yuri says nothing. He knows better than to make excuses when Yakov is on a rant. He bites his lip and rides it out.

After Yakov finishes (using such choice phrases as “shamefully ungrateful” and even “a disgrace to the nation,” which Yuri hasn’t heard since Viktor quit the first time), he waves Yuri away as if he can’t bear to look at him. That suits Yuri just fine, and he returns to the bathroom, his stomach in knots.

He’s been there a few minutes when Mila brings him a Sprite from the vending machine. She kneels beside him and rubs his back.

“Good god, did you catch something?” she asks. “You didn’t drink _that_ much.”

“Maybe,” Yuri says. He rests his head against the edge of the toilet. If this was anyone else’s life, he’d make a joke about catching feelings, but unfortunately this is his shitty life and he isn’t in a joking mood. 

They go back out into the rink, where Yuuri is running through his short program, Viktor watching from the sidelines. Viktor motions Yuri over when he sees him.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “I haven’t seen Yakov yell at anyone like that since—”

“You quit, I know. I’ll survive.”

Viktor nods. “Come for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll make something healing.”

And there it is, the simple question that has transformed back into a minefield. If Yuri says yes, he’ll have to contend with Yuuri’s anger. Say no, and he risks Viktor’s eternal questions. It’s a fucking lose-lose situation. 

“Is Yuuri okay with that?” he asks, trying to defer the decision.

Viktor’s brow wrinkles. “Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“No reason. Sure, I’ll come.” If worst came to worst, he could just bail and say he didn’t feel well. It would be true enough.

The rest of the day passes in a merciful blur. Yuri throws himself into bed the moment he gets home and finally turns his phone on.

Texts flood the screen and he silences it immediately, the cheery _ding!_ going straight through his skull. They’re mostly from Mila and Otabek—the usual: Mila asking why he wasn’t answering his phone and then telling him she was coming over, Otabek sending photos of him and Sezim doing more outdoorsy shit. His last text reads, _how was your weekend? hope you’re well_.

Jesus Christ. Where would he even begin?

He’s drafting a response when a text from Yuuri rolls in.

 **katsuki.yuuri** : we need to talk  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i agree. phone or in person?

He doesn’t agree, doesn’t ever want to talk about anything with anyone ever again, but intellectually he knows it needs to happen. Still, he almost lets his phone go to voicemail when Yuuri’s name appears on the caller i.d.

He picks up at the last second. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Yuuri says. 

Neither of them say anything for a moment, until finally Yuri huffs out a breath. “I’m not going to say anything to Viktor. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not,” Yuuri says. “I know you wouldn’t. I know you don’t want to hurt him any more than I do.”

That’s not entirely true—sometime Yuri would like nothing more than to punch Viktor right in his perfectly chiseled jaw—but he lets it slide. “Yes,” is all he says.

Yuuri sighs, the sound hissing through the phone’s tinny speakers. “I think I owe you something of an apology.”

“You owe me?” Yuri’s voice squeaks in his surprise. That’s not at all what he expected.

“I think I overreacted. I could have been a little more thoughtful in what I said.”

Yuri is at a loss for words. “Why are you apologizing to _me_? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Maybe, but I could have handled it better.”

Yuri finds himself tearing up again. It’s so _fucking_ unfair, that things turned out this way, that Yuri destroyed all the easiness between them. They were friends, close friends, and it’ll never be like that again.

Yuuri is still talking. “It was late, we were both drunk, and sometimes shit just happens.” His voice is clinical, as if he were critiquing Yuri’s toe loop.

“Sometimes shit happens,” Yuri echoes. Just like that, it’s cleaned up.

“I’m glad you get it. I know we both just want to move on.”

“Mmhmm,” Yuri says.

“Good,” Yuuri says and sighs again. “Viktor told me Yakov was really hard on you today. I hope it wasn’t because of what happened.”

“It wasn’t,” Yuri says, because what else can he say?

“All right, well, I hope it goes better tomorrow. I’ll see you then?”

“Yup, see you tomorrow,” Yuri says, and they both ring off.

It’s not until later, after he’s eaten dinner and texted Otabek and fed Ana, that he realizes it’s a complete and total lie.

He wasn’t just drunk. It wasn’t just the moment, or the music, or whatever the fuck else Yuuri ascribed it to.

Yuri is in love with him.

God, it’s so fucking simple. Yuri Plisetsky is in love with Yuuri fucking Katsuki.

He’s immediately furious with himself. How did he fucking let it get this far? Oh my god. He’d had a _childhood crush_ on the man. Viktor and he were _married_. What in the actual _fuck_.

That’s why Yuuri had been so eager to set the narrative. _We got drunk and you kissed me_ is such an easier truth than _I’m married and you’re in love with me_ , for both of them. Yuri had even believed it, if only for about twenty minutes. Honestly, though, Yuri can’t blame him. Not only would Viktor be angry, he would be really, really fucking hurt.

Christ.

Even though none of these realizations make anything less terrible, Yuri feels lightyears better. Everything is still a disaster, but at least he has more of an idea what he’s doing. And feeling.

Ana chooses this moment to leap up on the chair next to him. She yowls plaintively.

“Holy shit, Ana,” he tells her, scratching under her chin. “This is a giant fucking mess.”

-

Practice the next day isn’t as terrible as Monday’s. It’s still awful, but it’s not as awful.

He gets through both his programs, and manages to wring the full rotation out of his flip, though he still two-foots it. He studiously ignores everyone except Yakov, who seems reassured that Yuri is on the ice for every second he’s supposed to be.

“Do you feel better?” Mila asks him as they walk out together at the end of the day.

“Much,” Yuri says.

“Good. Are you going to Viktor and Yuuri’s for dinner?”

That’s trickier. “Y-es?” he says. “Did Viktor tell you?”

“Mmhmm. That’s good. He’ll make you something nice.”

It does sound really lovely, Yuri thinks, as he and Mila part ways on the street corner. Viktor is a great cook, Yuri doesn’t have an ounce of motivation to prepare something for himself, and he could just go, eat, and leave.

“Piece of cake,” he mutters to himself.

He can’t avoid them forever, he reasons. And there’s nothing to be done about it, so he might as well follow Yuuri’s lead in pretending everything is all right. Plus, Viktor chatters so much it’s likely Yuri won’t have to say more than three words.

He spends the next few hours convincing himself he’s right. He arranges the rationale into a mantra— _go, eat, leave_ —and repeats it to himself all the way up until he’s ringing the buzzer at Yuuri and Viktor’s apartment.

Viktor is in the kitchen stirring a giant vat of soup when he walks in. “Yurio!” Viktor calls. “You looked much better today. How do you feel?”

“I feel all right.” He throws his jacket over the couch, and sits at the breakfast bar when Viktor beckons him over. He picks at one of the potted succulents. “I got through both programs.”

“I’m so glad you used the piece I gave you.” Viktor tastes his concoction and wrinkles his nose. “Needs more pepper.”

“Well, it’s a great piece. Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”

Viktor grins, then looks over Yuri’s shoulder towards the hallway. Yuri turns, and sees Yuuri.

It’s then he realizes he’s made a huge mistake.

Yuuri’s not wearing his glasses, which is the first problem, and he’s _Yuuri_ , which is the second problem. Holy shit, Yuri was so naive to think this would be easy.

“You feel better?” Viktor is asking him. Yuuri sits at the breakfast bar as well and Viktor slides him a cup of tea.

“A little,” Yuuri says. He polishes his glasses—they were in his hand—and puts them on. He smiles faintly at Yuri.

“I think Yuuri has what you had,” Viktor tells Yuri. “He hasn’t been feeling well either.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuri says. He cannot even remember how to have a normal conversation. _Oh my god, Yuri Plisetsky, you’re in so much trouble._

He and Yuuri sit there in silence while Viktor finishes the soup, regaling them both with the recipe, which was apparently handed down from his great-great grandfather Nikiforov. It’s supposed to only be made from leeks grown at his family farm on the banks of the Volga. “But the ones from the corner shop work just as well,” Viktor says, beaming.

Yuri literally could not care less. His left side, the one closer to Yuuri, feels like it has an electric current running through it. He’s so hyper aware of him that he twitches when Yuuri breathes.

Yuuri turns towards him when Viktor goes to get the napkins from the dryer. “Calm down,” he says.

“I’m fucking calm,” Yuri hisses. “Christ, _you_ calm down.”

“I am completely—” Yuuri cuts himself off as Viktor comes back in, who frowns at the tail end of the conversation.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Yuuri and Yuri say in unison.

“Okay,” Viktor says, unconvinced. “Here, Yura, you want to fold these?”

“Not tonight, Vitya.” Yuuri offers no further explanation and Viktor looks a little hurt. Yuri wants to scream. _Good god, just fold the fucking napkins! How hard can it be?_

They make it through most of the meal unscathed. Viktor and Yuri make most of the conversation, Yuri desperately trying to appear as normal as possible. Yuuri is withdrawn, and makes the excuse of not feeling well when Viktor asks. They’ve done the dishes and moved into the living room when Viktor brings up the bridges.

“Did you enjoy seeing them? I forgot to ask on Sunday.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything for a few moments, then he says, “I”m not sure I got the point.”

Yuri is suddenly, incandescently furious. “You said it was beautiful.”

Yuuri shrugs. “I thought the whole experience was cool, but I think it’s a tradition I don’t quite understand.”

“Sure, but on the night of, you said you loved it.” Yuri hears the obstinate note in his own voice and hates it

“I thought about it a little more, I guess.”

“Yurio, it doesn’t matter,” Viktor interjects.

Yuri knows he should let it go, that he’s only making it worse, but he can’t let Yuuri rewrite the whole night. He just can’t. “I know it doesn’t, but—”

“Leave it, Yuri,” Yuuri snaps, and Yuri stops mid-word. He flicks his gaze down to his hands and picks at his cuticles. Yuuri folds his arms and stares out the window.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Viktor says abruptly.

Yuri looks at Yuuri, whose mouth goes straight into that thin line.

“Nothing’s going on,” Yuri says, but Viktor’s eyes are on Yuuri.

“Yura?” he says.

Yuuri looks back at Viktor, his face full of uncertainty. “Please don’t ask me,” he says.

“Yura—”

“It doesn’t matter, Vitya, please just let it go.”

“I can’t do that, Yuuri,” Viktor says. He stands and paces to the other side of the living room, folding his arms. “What is going on?”

“It doesn’t _matter_ , Viktor, I keep saying that and you keep not hearing me.”

“I don’t care, I know something is going on and I wish you both would just tell me what it is—”

“I kissed Yuuri,” Yuri says and the room goes completely silent, as if all the air had been sucked out.

“When.” Viktor’s voice is like the edge of a knife.

“When we went to see the bridges. It was me. It was all me, Yuuri told me off immediately.”

Yuuri closes his eyes and shakes his head. He still says nothing.

“Okay,” Viktor says, “so you were both drunk, it was late—”

Yuri can’t go through this again. “No, I—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuuri says sharply, “that’s exactly it. We talked about it, it was a huge misunderstanding.”

“So why didn’t you just tell me about it, Yura?”

“I knew it would hurt you. I’m sorry I didn’t. I just didn’t want to make it a bigger deal than it is.”

“Wait, hold on,” Yuri breaks in. “It wasn’t nothing.”

Yuuri’s eyes are like twin daggers but Viktor jumps in before he can say anything. “What do you mean, it wasn’t nothing?”

“I’m saying it mattered to me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Yuuri says, glaring.

“I do,” Yuri says, barreling on.

“It can’t mean anything. We were both drunk, you got caught up in the moment—”

“Sometimes it happens, Yurio,” Viktor says. His smile is starting to come back, now that he thinks he understands. Yuri can’t stand it, the false comfort, the easy lie.

“Don’t fucking condescend, I know it does, but that’s not what’s going on here—”

“How could it not be?” snaps Yuuri.

“Because I have feelings for you!” Yuri yells. The words echo off the ceiling, rebounding around the three of them. 

Yuri’s never been good at keeping himself in check in the heat of the moment. 

He can’t look at Viktor so he keeps his eyes locked on Yuuri. All the color has gone out of his face. 

“You don’t,” Yuuri says very quietly. “Yuri, you _don’t_.”

“Yes, I _do_ , and I can’t just move the fuck on the way you want me to. I’m sorry, I can’t. I know you want things to be normal and easy, but they were never easy for me. I’m sorry.” He finally scrapes together the courage to look at Viktor and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The betrayal on his face is so raw and open that Yuri feels sick.

He feels the tears coming up again and grabs his jacket off the back of the couch. 

“I’m sorry,” he says to Viktor. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted any of this to happen.”

He leaves and neither of them call after him.

He rolls the window down on the cab ride back to Lilia’s and lets the wind whip his tears away as they fall. The driver can probably hear him crying, but he can’t bring himself to care. He does pull his hood up, just in case the driver recognizes him. 

His mind goes in circles, stuck in a loop as they speed through the city. He sees Viktor’s face, then Yuuri’s face, then back to Viktor’s. They cycle through anger, hurt, betrayal, despair until Yuri feels like they’re burned into the back of his eyes permanently.

He hears Yuuri say _you don’t. Yuri, you don’t_.

He can’t go back to the rink tomorrow.

He’s not sure of anything else, but he knows that to be true with an unshakeable certainty. He can’t go back to the rink tomorrow.

He leans forward when the cab stops in front of the apartment. “Will you wait for me? I’ll be heading out again soon.” He brandishes a healthy wad of cash.

“Certainly,” the driver says, and turns the car off.

Yuri takes the stairs up to the sixth floor instead of the elevator. He kicks off his shoes and pushes the blinds wide open in his bedroom. The city glitters and winks outside his window as he pulls open his laptop. He hunches over it, fingers flying over the keyboard, and doesn’t lean back until he’s done.

He reaches for his phone and texts Otabek. He doesn’t wait for a reply; instead, he grabs his backpack off the top shelf of his closet and starts to fill it.

 **yuri-plisetsky** : does the offer to visit Almaty still stand  
**otabek-altin** : of course  
**otabek-altin** : why?  
**otabek-altin** : Yura, why?  
**yuri-plisetsky** : because i’m on my way. my flight leaves in an hour. i’ll be there after breakfast  
**otabek-altin** : ??????  
**otabek-altin** : is this a joke  
**yuri-plisetsky** : not a joke  
**yuri-plisetsky** : getting in the cab now  
**otabek-altin** : what is going on??  
**yuri-plisetsky** : everything is fine  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i want to see you  
**otabek-altin** : okay  
**yuri-plisetsky** : okay?  
**otabek-altin** : yes, okay  
**otabek-altin** : I’ll see you soon  
**otabek-altin** : safe flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains technically underage drinking, descriptions of disassociation and a panic attack, infidelity if you _REALLY_ squint (like really, really squint) and a depiction of poorly communicated consent.


	4. ALMATY

**03\. ALMATY**

* * *

Otabek’s hair is much longer.

Yuri can’t believe he didn’t notice it via their video chats. Or the multiple selfies. Even from behind, across the terminal, with dozens of people between them, it’s obvious. It brushes his jacket collar and makes him look even more like a badass, his profile cutting an intimidating line against the crowd.

Also, Yuri is so, so happy to see him. 

He can't stop himself from yelling Otabek’s name even when he's still several meters away. 

“Otabek! Beka!!”

Otabek turns, searching the crowd. He lands on Yuri and jogs in his direction. He’s almost to him when it occurs to Yuri that Otabek might be angry with him, annoyed that Yuri sprang this on him on such short notice. He marshals his scant explanation.

“Hi there,” Yuri starts to say, but Otabek pulls him right into a hug. 

When they separate, Otabek is grinning. “Your nose survives this encounter! We're already off to a better start.”

Yuri laughs too. He tucks his hair behind his ears. “Did you drive the bike?”

“No, I assumed you’d have luggage. Do you not?”

“Just this.” Yuri hoists his backpack as Otabek leads him through the airport.

“Well, we can go for a ride later if you like.”

“Please.”

Otabek fetches his car and, once they’re out on the highway, Yuri leans against the window to actually see the city. Or, more accurately, the mountains. They’re huge, fringing the city, dwarfing the tallest skyscrapers, capped with snow even in the dead of summer.

“They’re called Ile Alatauy,” Otabek says. He leans over to point out Yuri’s window. “That one there is Talgar, the tallest. She’s almost five thousand kilometers.”

They’re beautiful. They make the car feel small in the best possible way. They make Yuri feel tiny. He could stare at them all day.

Yuri realizes his jaw is hanging open and closes it quickly.

“Do you ski on them? Or just hike?” Yuri asks. Otabek shakes his head.

“I’ve never cared for skiing. Too cold.”

“But the ice isn’t?”

“It’s different.”

“I’m sure.”

They’re in Almaty proper now, and Otabek points again. “There’s my rink.”

Everything comes rushing back down onto Yuri at that simple sentence. The shock on Yuuri’s face—the betrayal on Viktor’s—Christ, it’s all too much. He has to close his eyes for a moment.

“Yura?” comes Otabek’s voice distantly. “You all right?”

“Yes,” Yuri says. “Yes, yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine.” He does his breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth for a few minutes, then:

“We’re here.”

Yuri pushes the car door open immediately, desperate for fresh air.

He finds himself standing in a narrow side street lined with apartment buildings. The early morning sun sparkles in the dust that hangs in the air. He can smell the faint scent of meat cooking somewhere.

Otabek’s suddenly beside him, shouldering Yuri’s backpack. “This way,” he gestures and unlocks the front door of the closest apartment building for Yuri.

Four flights later, and they emerge from the cramped staircase onto an airy landing. Otabek’s apartment is in the rear of the building; Otabek opens the door and kicks off his shoes.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, and disappears down the hallway with Yuri’s bag.

Yuri toes off his shoes and looks around. He doesn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t... this. The apartment is spacious and beautifully furnished. Otabek has plants everywhere, greenery twining across multiple surfaces. It’s lived in and homey, in a way that Yuri had never managed to make Lilia’s place feel even after two years there.

He hears Sezim before he sees her, her bark echoing across the high ceilings. She barrels into Yuri, almost knocking him down, her whole rear wiggling with the strength of her wagging.

Yuri kneels and pets her with both hands. She goes into a paroxysm of ecstasy, yapping and jumping like mad.

“Sezim! _Tömen_ ,” comes Otabek’s voice. Sezim backs off immediately, though her tail still wags enthusiastically.

“I’m sorry,” Otabek says to Yuri. “She hasn’t met many people since I’ve had her. At least she didn’t bite you.”

“Are you crazy? I love her. Can I pet her?”

“Of course. If she gets too excited, say ‘ _tömen_ ’ and put your hand flat on the floor. That’s her sign for stop.”

Yuri moves forward slowly and buries a hand in Sezim’s fur again. “Is that Kazakh?”

“Yes. Just like me.”

Otabek is standing against the doorway, smiling. Yuri sticks out his tongue. Otabek laughs and goes through the entryway into the kitchen.

“Did you have breakfast?” he calls.

“No,” Yuri says. He neglects to mention that he didn’t eat on the plane because he felt too anxious to consume anything.

“I’ll make something. I don’t have to be at the rink for another hour.”

Fuck. There it was again. Yuri should have considered this ahead of time. If he didn’t want to think about skating, he shouldn’t have fled to another skater’s home. He would just have to suck it up and deal with it.

He follows Otabek into the kitchen, which is similarly large and full of light. Otabek is toasting bread and pulling eggs out of the fridge. Sezim pads in after him.

“Sit,” Otabek says, gesturing towards the little table and two chairs tucked in the kitchen corner. Yuri does. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee, please, if you have it.”

“I have instant.”

“Ugh. Nevermind.”

Otabek shoots him a look. “I’m sure there are coffee places in town that are more to your liking,” he says mildly, slicing sausage into one skillet. He cracks two eggs into a second, one after the other. They sizzle merrily.

“I’ll look around.”

Minutes later, Otabek slides a plate of toast, fried eggs, and sausage in front of Yuri. It’s followed quickly by a cup of black tea.

“It’s the closest cup of quality caffeination I can offer,” he says, and sits, his own plate and mug before him.

“Thank you,” Yuri says, and he thinks Otabek knows he means for more than breakfast. Which is absolutely delicious. Yuri realizes he’s ravenous. He hasn’t eaten since the soup the night before.

The soup. God _damnit_ , is this his life now, where everything sends him down this precarious slope of bad memories and heartbreak? He’s a walking embarrassment and every cliche in the world to boot. Christ.

He feeds a bit of sausage to Sezim and catches Otabek watching him. “Sorry,” Yuri says. Otabek just shakes his head and smiles.

“We can make exceptions for guests.” He leans back in his chair. “Yura...”

Yuri hears the serious note in Otabek’s voice and focuses on cutting his sausage into the tiniest pieces possible.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Do I need a reason to visit you?” Yuri says, too quickly.

“No. But you do need a reason when it’s at a moment’s notice and in the middle of the skating season.”

Yuri taps his fork against the table, the little _tinktinktinktinktink_ echoing throughout the little kitchen. He examines his prepared explanation— _Yakov gave me the week off, it was really last minute_ —and finds he can’t stomach lying to Otabek. But, there’s also no way in hell he’s telling him the truth.

So, he settles for neither the truth or a lie. “I can’t talk about it,” he says. “Not right now. But yeah, I’m probably not technically allowed to be here and I likely will get in trouble but I don’t care. I needed to be gone.”

Otabek inclines his head slowly. His face is very sober when he eyes Yuri. “Are you okay?”

There’s no use pretending. Yuri looks down at his plate and slashes the yolk of his second egg. “No.” He draws his fork through the orange as it bleeds over the white china. “But. Maybe... eventually.”

“All right,” Otabek says. “That’s all I need to know. You can tell me the rest when you’re ready.”

Now there’s a frightening thought. “What... if that never happens?”

“That’s the deal. Stay as long as you want. But you have to be working towards being ready.”

Yuri feels a sudden rush of affection for Otabek’s steadfast honesty. Yuri can admit that’s a difficult request, but god, if it isn’t a relief for him to just say it outright. “All right,” he says.

Otabek grins. “Good.” He rises and starts putting all the dishes in the sink. “Now, I have to get ready to go. I’ll be back around five. Help yourself to anything you need. If you could take Sez for a walk, I’d be eternally grateful—we didn’t get our morning jog in.”

Yuri grimaces. “That’s a little bit my fault.”

“Take her on a walk and all will be forgiven.”

Otabek whirls through the apartment for a bit longer, gathering his gear and changing into his warm-up clothes. He shows Yuri the spare room, which is tiny, with windows larger than the bed. He keeps thinking of more details he wants Yuri to know—”there’s a nice café on the corner, that would be a good place to start if you’re looking for coffee”—until Yuri assures him of his competency and shoos him out the door.

“Oh, and the wifi password is on the fridge. Spare key’s in my bedside drawer. Anything else, text me. Okay, bye!”

Yuri waves and shuts the door behind him. He looks at Sezim, standing in the hallway, wagging her tail.

“All right, girl,” he says. “Looks like we need to find a way to entertain ourselves while Dad is gone.”

He drifts from room to room, taking in the apartment. Sezim follows him. It’s a lot smaller than the light and high ceilings suggest: just kitchen, living room, master bedroom, spare room that clearly doubles as an office, and a small bathroom in between the two. The tiny balcony overlooks the alley, with the next street beyond. Yuri can see a little park across the way.

The window in the kitchen is open slightly, and a breeze ghosts through the apartment. Yuri inhales. He wants to be outside.

He unearths the key from Otabek’s bedside table and Sezim’s leash hanging on a hook by the front door. She lets out a few excited _boofs_ when she understands they’re going out and Yuri finds himself talking to her the whole time, narrating their exit from the apartment into the outdoors.

“Okay, see, we just clip that on your collar—good girl, there we go—and now we can go outside. Oh shit, fuck, I have to lock the door—okay, now we’re good.”

He lets her take the lead once they’re outside. She pulls him around the corner straight to the little park. It’s fenced in and Yuri doesn’t see any signs prohibiting dogs, so he latches the gate behind them and unclips her leash.

Sezim is off like a shot, chasing a squirrel or something in the underbrush of the rambling bushes, green and damp in the encroaching sunlight. The air is much drier than in St. Petersburg, and maybe a little thinner, Yuri thinks. It’s supposedly better for athletes to train at a higher altitude. Yuri wonders absently if Otabek has noticed a difference since returning to Almaty. He makes a mental note to ask him.

Yuri wanders around the park, keeping Sezim within his line of sight. There’s a statue of a man in military garb in the center, dated 1916—Yuri supposes the park is in memory of whoever he is, but his Kazakh isn’t very good and he can only piece together fragments from the information on the plaque.

Eventually, Sezim tires herself out and trots over to flop down at Yuri’s feet. It’s convenient timing, because Yuri’s started daydreaming about coffee. He snaps the leash back on her collar and they walk down to the shop Otabek mentioned.

At first, without thinking, he orders in English and the girl behind the counter gives him an utterly blank look—with good reason, since the menu on the wall behind her is in Russian. He repeats himself quickly in Russian.

“That’s better,” she says, a sardonic smile appearing on her face. “One cappuccino. It’ll be just a moment.” Yuri can’t help but grin back. Her coworker behind the espresso bar is eyeing Sezim distastefully, though, so Yuri beats a hasty retreat to sit outside.

The waitress brings him his cappuccino a few minutes later. “This is your dog?” she asks.

“No, she’s a friend’s. I’m just taking care of her for today.”

She bends over and coos to Sezim in an undertone. “Hello, beautiful.” Sezim, still worn out from the earlier jaunt in the park, manages to wag her tail and submit to having her chin scratched. “Shall I bring her some water?”

“That’d be wonderful. Thank you.” Yuri can’t remember the last time he didn’t get his coffee to go, when he sat and drank it actually at the shop. Maybe if he had a companionable dog and if Russian cafés employed friendlier baristas, he would.

The girl brings a dish with water out for Sezim, petting her again once she sets it down. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says to Yuri before disappearing back inside.

Yuri sips his coffee. The sun is fully up now. He left his phone at the apartment, so he has no idea what time it is. He’d guess around 11 but he finds that he also doesn’t much care.

After some time, Yuri’s stomach informs him that the egg and toast were no longer sufficient nourishment and that it’d like to be fed _right now_ , thank you, so he packs up Sez and heads back to Otabek’s apartment. The waitress waves as he leaves.

Sezim sprawls out in the patch of sunlight coming through the porch doors while Yuri goes through the kitchen cabinets and fridge. “I have to do all the work around here, hm? Is that how it is?” Yuri tells her. She thumps her tail in response.

He doesn’t recognize a lot of the food in the fridge is, so he settles for some cornflakes, with what he thinks is kefir over top, and a couple boiled eggs. He digs his phone out of the bottom of his bag and plugs it in. He sits on the couch with his eclectic meal, and, once he hears the cheery little startup jingle, checks his phone.

He ignores everything at first except Mila’s messages, though he glimpses the number of missed calls and voicemails (72 and 33, respectively) and—yup, holy shit, he can’t think about that right now. He figures—hopes, really— Mila will go the easiest on him.

 **mila+baba** : jesus christ what is going on  
**mila+baba** : where are you??  
**mila+baba** : yakov is on the war path, yuuri is crying, and viktor looks like he’s been stabbed  
**mila+baba** : lilia says you didn’t come home last night, and she’s worried so now im worried  
**mila+baba** : hello??????????  
**mila+baba** : answer your fucking phone  
**mila+baba** : if you’re trying to scare me it’s working  
**mila+baba** : oh my god, yura, please just let me know you’re all right

Yuri feels a little ill. It’s not exactly unusual for him to disappear without telling anyone, but he didn’t factor in Yuuri and Viktor getting worked up. Usually, Viktor isn’t able to lie to save his life, but obviously he hasn’t said anything or Mila would have mentioned it. 

A tiny, resentful corner of his heart is pleased that the two of them are upset. He hopes they’re suffering, bitterly, and that they feel guilty as hell.

He knows it isn’t fair, though. So, he messages Mila back.

 **yuri-plisetsky** : i’m ok  
**yuri-plisetsky** : you don’t need to worry

Mila responds instantaneously.

 **mila+baba** : WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU  
**yuri-plisetsky** : if i tell you you’ll tell the others.  
**mila+baba** : yuri, holy shit i swear to god  
**yuri-plisetsky** : sorry  
**yuri-plisetsky** : one of them will come after me  
**mila+baba** : are you in moscow?  
**mila+baba** : are you with your grandfather?  
**mila+baba** : i won’t tell, i promise i wont tell, please just tell me  
**yuri-plisetsky** : do you swear on your life  
**mila+baba** : i swear  
**yuri-plisetsky** : all right  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i’m in almaty  
**mila+baba** : ??????  
**yuri-plisetsky** : with otabek  
**mila+baba** : ah ok  
**mila+baba** : okay that makes me feel better  
**mila+baba** : he is by far your most sensible friend  
**mila+baba** : why did you leave? are you dropping out of the GP? what is going ON  
**yuri-plisetsky** : oh my god please stop with the questions  
**mila+baba** : well you will have to answer them sometime  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i know. i know, just not right now.  
**yuri-plisetsky** : right now i really need to sleep  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i’ll text you later  
**mila+baba** : ok  
**mila+baba** : you’ll call me later  
**mila+baba** : not text  
**yuri-plisetsky** : ok ok fine  
**mila+baba** : if you ever pull anything like that ever again i’ll fucking kill you  
**mila+baba** : just so you know  
**mila+baba** : also i’m assuming i’m on Ana duty  
**yuri-plisetsky** : yes, please, thank you thank you  
**mila+baba** : love you  
**yuri-plisetsky** : love you too

He silences his phone and leaves it on the little end table. Sezim pads after him into the spare room and, once he’s stripped down to his boxers and drawn the shades closed, hops up into the bed with him. He’s utterly wrung out and falls asleep in moments.

-

“Yura?”

Otabek’s voice pulls Yuri out of the delirious tangle of his dreams. Yuri opens his eyes to see him standing in the doorway, a silhouette in the spill of light from the hallway.

“Hi,” Yuri says, and yawns. “What time is it?”

“A little after five. I just got home.”

“Mmm.” Yuri stretches like a cat, accidentally elbowing Sezim. She licks his face. “I suppose I should get up.”

“If you like. I was thinking we could go for a ride before the sun sets. We still have a few hours.”

“That sounds nice.” He’s only ridden with Otabek a couple times, and it was a singularly thrilling experience that he certainly would care to repeat. Now that he’s thinking about it, he’s not sure why people ride in cars rather than on motorcycles.

“Great. Do you have a decent jacket? I’m not sure one of mine will fit you...”

Otabek goes to look while Yuri slowly gets out of bed. His pullover likely isn’t up to scratch but he puts it on anyway. He slips on his favorite jeans and laces up his high-tops.

Yuri’s braiding his hair out of his face when Otabek comes back in with several jackets thrown over his arm. He pulls open the shades, disregarding Yuri’s squawk of discomfort. “Here,” he says, holding out one of the thickly padded coats. “This is my biggest one. Try it on.”

“Why would I need your largest jacket?” Yuri asks, but he slips it on.

“Have you not seen yourself lately? You look like you could be one of those American football players."

Yuri laughs. “Surely not. Maybe one of the small ones.” Shockingly, the jacket is a little tight over his shoulders, but he can zip it up all the way so Otabek pronounces it sufficient.

Otabek’s motorcycle is stowed in one of the complex’s garages out back, the next over from his car. He hands Yuri the spare helmet, makes certain it’s fastened properly, and then they’re off.

The wind rips ferociously at Yuri, and he’s immediately grateful for the jacket. He finds a pair of sunglasses in one of the pockets and slides them on as well. Then they’re out of the residential area and picking up speed, so he laces his arms securely around Otabek’s waist.

Yuri loses all sense of time and space as they fly through the city. One street blurs into another. Otabek is a conscientious enough driver, but he runs every light he can, barely pauses for stop signs, and takes the corners a little harder than is probably necessary. Yuri loves it. His back absorbs the heat of the lingering sun through the black leather; his nose feels like it’s turning into an ice chip, but he doesn’t care. It’s so nice to be outside, to be with someone but not have to talk.

Otabek takes them towards the mountains until they’re in the foothills, winding up narrow switch-backed roads. The sun is finally kissing the horizon when they slow and pull off to the side. Otabek tugs off his helmet and turns around to look at Yuri.

“Mind if we stop here?” he asks.

“No, let’s,” Yuri says, dismounting so Otabek can get off. They sit on the little stone ledge of the overlook; lights are starting to come on in the city before them.

Otabek runs his hand through his hair a couple times. Yuri touches one of the curls where it brushes against the back of his neck.

“Do you braid it?”

“No. Is it long enough? I just got lazy—I’m not really growing it out. Yanna will probably make me cut it before Canada.”

“It’s definitely long enough to do some small braids. Viktor’s showed me a couple ways to do it.” 

“You’re welcome to practice on me.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Otabek collects a few pebbles from ground and tosses them over the edge. Yuri watches as they soar through the air and disappear from view.

“How was practice?”

“Good. I landed the quad flip again.”

“You did?! Why didn't you tell me?”

“I just did.”

“I mean right away!”

“I knew it would come up,” Otabek says in his typically unruffled fashion. 

“Well. Congrats. You're going to kick some ass this year. I can't wait to see it.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. JJ Leroy is shaking in his boots and he has no idea why.”

Otabek laughs. “I doubt the poor man knows what trouble he was in for when you decided he was your nemesis.”

“He doesn’t have what it takes,” Yuri scoffs. “My nemesis would have to be someone that actually poses a threat.”

“Yuuri, then?” Otabek looks over when Yuri doesn’t respond. “I’m sorry. Was that out of line?”

Yuri knits his fingers together and hooks his chin over his knee. “No,” he says. Then, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Otabek nods and they’re both quiet once more.

Is Yuuri his nemesis? That would certainly be a simple label for something that’s not simple at all. Unfortunately for all of them, Yuri doesn’t think it’s going to be that easy to reason his way out of this complicated maze of feelings. With some sleep, it feels less like it’s going to choke him, but the tightness in his chest remains.

The stars are starting to wink into life against the deep blue sky. Yuri burrows down into the leather coat, tucking his nose inside the collar. 

“Are you cold?” Otabek asks. 

“A little,” Yuri admits. 

“We can go. I'm starting to get hungry.”

Yuri agrees and they remount the bike and head back down the hill. The wind cuts much harder without the warmth of the sun and Yuri is glad to return to the coziness of Otabek’s apartment. 

Otabek goes right into the kitchen when they arrive. He pulls various packages out and tosses them onto the counter space between the fridge and stove. 

“Have you had much traditional Kazakh food before?” he asks from the depths of the freezer. 

“No,” Yuri says. 

“Well, it's mostly meat, with some dairy and noodles and bread. And in this house, plenty of fresh vegetables by coach’s orders. Here.”

Otabek beckons him into the kitchen. He pulls out a cutting board and knife and lays an onion, carrot and several bell peppers on it. He directs Yuri in cutting them while he prepares the meat.

Yuri quickly discovers he loves watching Otabek cook. With Viktor, it’s a huge production and more than a little bit of a performance. But it’s clear Otabek has been providing for himself for a long time now. He moves fluidly and economically. There’s a rhythm to his system of preparations—a rhythm into which he folds Yuri effortlessly. 

The cubed steak is browned in a big saucepan, then the vegetables go in along with tomatoes, stock, and spices. Otabek pulls a big packet of fresh noodles from the back of the fridge and dumps them in a pot of boiling water on the back burner. 

“This is a Kazakh dish?” Yuri asks. The noodles are reminiscent of Japanese udon. 

“Technically Uzbek, I suppose. My mom used to make it all the time when we were growing up.”

He tosses the steak bone to Sezim; she snaps it out of the air and trots off to a corner of the living room with it. 

“Usually I make stock from the bones, but it's her favorite treat,” he tells Yuri. 

“You make your own stock? My god.”

“My mother would kill me if she ever heard I got it from the store. All part of the process.”

They wash dishes while the soup cooks, and as he scrubs the cutting board, Yuri realizes he knows very little about Otabek’s family. He dries the board and leans against the countertop. Otabek is tearing up fresh dill.

“Where does your parents live?” he asks.

“Balkhash. It’s north, about eights hours. Right on the lake.”

“Do you see them often?”

“Not as often as my mother would like. My father just retired—he worked at one of the processing plants out there—and she hounds me to come up. She says my sister misses me.” He grimaces.

“You have a little sister?” 

“No, an older sister, which is why that’s a patent falsehood. She’s married, with two children herself.”

“You’re an uncle?” Yuri can’t stop a delighted smile from stealing over his face. “Uncle Beka,” he says, trying out the title. Oh my god. It’s the best thing ever.

Otabek throws him an exasperated look. “Yes,” he says. “I’m an uncle.”

“Which kind are you? The one who buys all the gifts and takes them to the fair, or the one who is stricter than their parents and asks them about school?”

Otabek considers this while he tastes the soup. “Both?” he says, adding more salt.

Yuri laughs, clapping his hands together out of sheer delight. “This is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever learned about you,” he tells Otabek.

Otabek just lets out a protracted, longsuffering sigh. When he does speak, it’s just to say, “This is almost ready. Bowls are in the cabinet behind your head.”

Yuri gets the bowls and manages to locate silverware in the drawers as well while Otabek ladles out the food. Sezim comes in and sits at Yuri’s feet once they’re at the table. She looks up at him expectantly.

“Sezim. Out,” Otabek says. She whines and flops down onto the floor. Otabek shakes his head. “She’s shameless. She has you pinned as a pushover.”

Automatically, Yuri defends himself. “I’m not a pushover!”

“No, as a rule you’re not, but Sez likes to be the exception to rules. Eat.”

Yuri obeys. “Oh my god,” he says after the first taste. “This is amazing. Holy shit.”

“I do my best,” Otabek says dryly.

“And you succeed.”

After dinner, Yuri steers Otabek away from the dishes—”if you’re going to cook something that amazing, I’m going to clean up”—and he finishes as Otabek is clipping Sezim’s leash on for her evening walk.

“You’re welcome to come,” Otabek says, but Yuri shakes his head.

“I told Mila I’d call.”

“All right. Good luck. We’ll be back soon.”

The door _snicks_ shut behind Otabek and suddenly the apartment feels much too quiet. Despite his very strong desire to just shove his shoes on and go after Sez and Otabek, Yuri forces himself to dry and put away all the dishes. (And if he does it at an absurdly leisurely pace, who is there to tell on him?) After, he drags himself over to the living room. He sits on the couch, pulls his phone off the end table, and calls Mila.

She picks up on the second ring. “Yura?”

“It’s me.”

“Hi.” She’s breathing hard. “Sorry, I’m walking back from the rink. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” It’s the only answer he can think of for such a loaded question.

“Okay. This is a good start.” She laughs humorlessly. “Hold on, I’m almost home.”

Yuri waits, scaping a thumbnail along the couch’s overstuffed arm. He listens to Mila bang the front door of the building open and then shut, followed by the door of her apartment.

“All right,” she says. He hears her shoes hit the wall as she kicks them off too hard, just like usual. “That’s better. Okay. So.”

Yuri hates the careful note in her voice. “Oh my god, Mila. Just fucking talk. Whatever it is you don’t want to say.”

“Fine. What the fuck?”

Yuri covers his face with his free hand. “I know.”

“I mean, what the actual fuck? I know something happened and I don’t want to pressure you into telling me, but also you should fucking tell me! What the hell is going on!?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, Mila. I’m not going to tell you, and if you ask me again, I’ll hang up.”

“Fine,” she spits out again, and something slams in the background. Then, “Something happened with Yuuri and Viktor. Didn’t it.”

It’s not a question. Yuri’s stomach drops, fiercely. “What? No?”

“You can’t lie to me. I know everything about you. Did Viktor say something?”

“About?”

“Your incredibly obvious crush on his husband! He did, didn’t he? God, that asshole, I’m going to smash his perfect face.”

“What?!” Yuri’s mind is racing to keep up with Mila’s train of thought. “No, no, he didn’t say anything and also _what_ are you talking about?”

Mila scoffs. “It’s clear as Viktor’s receding hairline. He can be such an insecure baby. I’m frankly surprised he didn’t say anything sooner.”

Panic is running through Yuri like lightning. “Mila, for fuck’s sake, that isn’t what happened!”

“So it didn’t have anything to do with them?”

“Yes—I mean, _no_ , oh my god, why did I even _call_ you?”

“Because I have the answers for everything. Just tell me who to beat up.”

“No one! No one did anything except me.”

“You? What did you do, _sleep_ with Yuuri?” Her cutting tone implies that this is the most ludicrous idea she can come up with. Yuri’s throat closes up.

“No. No, I kissed him.”

Mila’s shock emanates from the phone like a silent earthquake. Yuri tries to breathe through the dead air. He half-hopes she’ll yell at him, because any bit of sympathy, any tiny expression of kindness will make him go to pieces. 

Finally, she says, “Oh, Yurochka,” in a completely different voice. Yuri starts crying immediately. 

“Mila,” he chokes out, “Mila, I really fucked up.”

“Oh, baby,” she says and Yuri totally loses it. She makes sympathetic noises as he clutches the phone and sobs.

Of course, this is the exact time that Otabek chooses to return. Yuri is completely in the grip of the crying fit and he can’t even bother to hide his face as Sezim bounds into the living room. Otabek follows behind and Yuri has the extreme misfortune of seeing the confusion on his face bloom into full-blown horror.

“Oh my god,” Otabek says, coming to him at once. “Yura, what’s wrong?”

Yuri can only shake his head. His breath is coming in great, gasping heaves around the tears. In his ear, Mila says, “Are you alone? Is Otabek there?”

“Is that Mila?” Otabek asks at the same time. Yuri nods. Otabek sits beside him. “Let me.” He takes the phone. “Mila? Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

Yuri drops his aching head in his hands as Otabek talks to Mila. He’s so _fucking_ sick of this, of feeling like he could fall apart at any moment. Like the slightest touch will make him shatter. It’s bullshit, unfair bullshit. He wants to get to be angry. He wants to scream and break things, and here he is in another country, crying on his best friend’s couch.

“Yes. All right, I will,” Otabek is saying into the phone. “Bye.” He tosses the phone aside onto the couch, and then leans down to place gentle hands on Yuri’s forearms. “Yura? Can you talk to me?”

Yuri tries, hitching in air. His stomach aches from the lack of oxygen; he sits back to open up his chest. He still can’t form words, though, and he’s flying apart at the seams and the fear of losing himself entirely is what finally makes him reach forward and crumble into Otabek.

Otabek pulls him in instantly, cradling Yuri into his shoulder like a small child. “Shhh, shhhh,” he says. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” and for once, Yuri lets himself be held. He wants to be comforted and Otabek seems to know exactly what to say, murmuring a litany of reassurance into Yuri’s cheek. _You’re all right, I’m here, I’m here, you’re okay, it’s all right._

The solidity of Otabek’s body is what ultimately calms him down, the rhythm of his hand stroking through Yuri’s hair resetting Yuri’s racing heart to a gentler pace. He draws in one final deep breath and pulls back.

Otabek’s hand, free of Yuri, goes to push his own hair back. “I’ll get you some water,” he says, and goes to the kitchen. Yuri scrapes his own hair, knotted and damp with tears, out of his face and weaves it into a sloppy braid just to get it off his overheated neck. He hears the faucet run and cut off, and then Otabek is sitting back down, offering a glass of water to Yuri. Yuri takes it gratefully and drains it.

“Better?” Otabek asks. His hand comes up again to rest tentatively on top of Yuri’s, laid against the back of the couch.

Yuri nods. “Thank you,” he says. He nestles the empty glass between his crossed thighs. Now that the crying has passed, embarrassment is creeping in to take its place. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Otabek’s brows knit together into one dark, furious furrow.

“For crying all over you. For—showing up to your city and your apartment without any warning. For eating your food.”

“Yura.” Otabek leans back, passing an incredulous hand across his forehead. “You’re my friend. You can do all of that and worse and it would still be true.”

Yuri bits his lip and nods again. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just drums his nails against the glass. Sezim, sprawled on the floor, cocks her ears at the little _ping ping ping ping_ it makes. Otabek clicks his tongue and she comes over to nestle her head in his lap. 

“That’s friendship,” he says as he scratches her neck. “Isn’t that right, girl?”

Yuri rubs her along her flank. “Well. Thank you all the same.”

Otabek smiles a tiny smile, and eventually he puts on some music and brings them both ice cream from the freezer. They’re both tired from long day—Yuri tremendously so, even considering his nap—so they go to bed soon after. 

The bed is a little emptier and certainly not as warm without Sezim. He starts to formulate a plot to steal her away from sleeping with Otabek and he’s asleep before he gets further than _steak bones_.

-

They fall into a routine quickly. It shocks Yuri when he looks at the date and sees he's been there more than a week. He feels at ease and at home in a way he's not sure he ever has before. In the mornings, Otabek goes to the rink and Yuri goes on a run with Sezim. He makes a habit of going to the coffee shop afterwards, and quickly learns that the nice barista’s name is Lina and that she works every day except Sundays, when the café is closed. 

One morning, she brings another coffee out with his cappuccino and sits down at his table. 

“It's my break,” she tells him. She lights a cigarette. “Your name is Yuri, yes?”

“It is. And you're Lina?”

“Yes. Not Kazakh, are you?”

“Russian.”

“Do you live here? You look very familiar.”

“I've only been here a little while. I'm staying up the street.”

Lina leans down to pet Sez. “Then you must be famous. I never forget a face.” She looks back up at him, squinting into the sunlight. “Are you famous?”

“Um.” By some standards, certainly. He's not sure what the standard is here. “No?”

“Hm,” is all she says. She sips her coffee. “So what brings you to Kazakhstan?”

“I'm visiting a friend.”

“How do you find it? It's beautiful in the summer, no?”

“Absolutely. Where I'm from it's so humid and rainy in the summer. It's lovely here.”

“Do they have mountains where you're from?”

“No. Rivers, lots of them. And the sea.”

“I've never been to the ocean.” She leans forward. “Is it like it seems on the tv?”

“Sort of... it’s big and a bit terrifying, I suppose. I love it.”

“I've traveled very little but I'm saving up.” Her eyes are sparkling. “This is my second job—it all goes straight into my travel fund.”

“Wow.” Yuri's never had to save up money in order to travel. It's hard not to be impressed. 

“Have you gone many places?”

“Too many to name.” 

“It must be very exciting. I'd love to go to America. But St. Petersburg is at the top of my list. Have you ever been?”

“No way! I'm from St. Petersburg!”

“Are you!”

“Yes, I've lived there for ages!”

Right then, someone calls Lina’s name from inside the coffee shop. They turn to see the other barista tap his watch pointedly and make a ‘wrap it up’ gesture. Lina rolls her eyes but stands. 

“I'm summoned,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette in the ash tray. “He doesn't like it when I smoke. Or talk to men.”

Yikes. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Lina laughs. “He wishes! No, just the manager.” She stands and holds out her hand. “Well, Yuri from St. Petersburg, Russia, it’s been wonderful to talk with you. I hope to see you again soon.”

Yuri shakes her outstretched hand. “I'll be back,” he promises. She’s almost back inside when Yuri thinks of a question. 

“Lina!” She turns back. “Do you know where I can buy coffee beans? Just—for home,” he says hastily when she raises an eyebrow. “I’ll still come, I swear.”

“The grocery store, of course. Do they not have grocery stores in St. Petersburg?” She winks and swings back inside.

Yuri takes Sezim home and then goes to the store. It’s a few streets over and he doesn’t want to push his luck regarding Almaty establishments and their lenient dog policies. He grabs coffee beans and then a grinder, because he’s certain Otabek doesn’t have one. He grabs potatoes and leeks and mushrooms for soup, pasta and sauce for bolognese, and the scratch ingredients for blini just because he wants to. Despite Otabek’s assurances, Yuri doesn’t have it in him to allow someone else to cook all his meals, no matter how much Otabek likes it. Especially since Otabek is training right now. And Yuri is not.

Otabek had cautiously asked Yuri on the second evening if Yuri wanted to come to the rink with him the next day. Yuri had said no without even thinking, and then no again when he thought about it. Otabek backed off immediately, and it hasn’t come up since. Yuri is not so much avoiding thinking about it as he is... just not thinking about it.

Mila calls him on the way back from the store. They’ve fallen into a pattern as well; they call each other at least every other day, whenever they feel like it. Mila hasn’t asked for any more details of what happened with Yuuri, and Yuri doesn’t offer them. They don’t talk about skating. Usually. 

Today, Mila spends most of the time telling Yuri about her latest date with Dominika, the bartender from Achtung Baby. “She’s so lovely, Yura, just the sweetest,” she tells him. “You would adore her. She has a wicked sense of humor.”

“A wicked sense of humor, eh?”

“You’re terrible. And yes, since you’re so interested, she is _fantastic_ in bed.”

“Ugh. I wasn’t interested.”

Mila cackles, but sobers quickly. “I have to tell you something.”

“Is it about your sex life? Because I don’t want to know.”

“Sadly, no. It’s about Viktor.”

Yuri’s heart drops down to somewhere near his toes. “What about him?”

“He begs me every day to tell you he’s sorry. Why he can’t just tell you himself, I don’t—”

“I blocked his number. Him and Yuuri both.” His second day in Almaty, after his amount of unread texts and missed calls had tripled overnight. And then promptly blocked their emails and social media accounts.

“Ah. Well, then, it makes sense. He made me swear to tell you.”

“Consider me told.”

“Okay. All right, I need to get back to the ice. Talk later?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Say hi to Beka for me. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

That was new too, Mila telling Yuri she loved him and Yuri saying it in return. It’s not that he ever doubted she did—he _knew_ she did, in the same way he knew the sky was blue and it snowed in Moscow in the winter—but it was simply that it wasn’t stated verbally. Yuri knew he’d really frightened her. He expected that the scare had startled them both into stating it.

He goes back to the apartment and puts away all the groceries. Then, because his body feels unmoored without doing so, he does his stretches and an assortment of warm-ups and exercises. He showers, washing off the dust from his run, and watches tv on his laptop while he French braids his damp hair. It’s long enough now that he can pull the plait over his shoulder, though not far. Just far enough to brush his collarbone, where it slowly drips water onto the old t-shirt Yuri stole from Otabek’s clean laundry basket. As it turns out, the amount of clothing he could stuff in his backpack wasn’t sufficient. Mila is supposed to be sending him some of his stuff; however, knowing Mila, Yuri wouldn’t be surprised if she sends him only too-small tees and mismatched socks.

He lays on the couch and considers starting one of the books or magazines scattered around Otabek’s apartment. Instead, he finds himself waking up some time later to the sound of Otabek returning home from the rink.

He doesn’t bother to get up, just turns over onto his back. Otabek comes around the corner and sees him.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” he says, and grins. He balances against the wall with one hand to pull off his shoes. He straightens, then frowns. “Is that my t-shirt?”

“Oh. Ah. Yes,” Yuri says. He sits up. “I’m out of clothes.”

“Already?” Otabek is bemused, a little of what might be fondness quirking at his bottom lip.

“Well, it turns out that it’s very difficult to pack well when you do it in ten minutes.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Otabek says. He sits on the little leather loveseat across from the couch. “I never leave packing to the last minute.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” Yuri says huffily.

“Anyway. Since we’re on the topic of my excellent traveling skills—” Yuri rolls his eyes but restrains himself and says nothing ”—it’s Friday.”

“It is, isn’t it,” Yuri says. “A marvel.”

“Which means I have the next two days off. How do you feel about camping?”

“I feel... ambivalent? About it?” Yuri’s not sure he’s ever gone. It’s not a particularly Russian pastime, sleeping on the ground outside.

“Are you willing to try? I’d planned to do a small trip this weekend. It’s supposed to be nice weather.”

“I don’t have any, like. Proper shoes. Or whatever it is you need to be a mountain man.”

“I have lots of spares. I’m the unofficial outfitter whenever we go camping.”

Yuri shrugs. “All right then. Why not?” He can’t think of an excuse, and, indeed, why not?

-

Yuri regrets his willingness when Otabek wakes him up just after sunrise the next day. Otabek shepherds him and Sezim into the car, already stuffed to the gills with gear, and Yuri rouses himself enough to watch the sun come up as they whiz down the highway.

Yuri feels a little bit like he’s intruding on a private activity. Otabek doesn’t speak—he just drives, radio on, rear windows rolled down so Sezim can stick her head out and pant into the wind. Otabek has been so careful about including him in his other habits that Yuri starts to get nervous. Or Yuri had thought Otabek had been careful. Maybe Yuri’d just barged in and taken up every inch of space possible and Otabek had been too polite to tell him to back the fuck off. _Should I have said no to coming? Is this finally the line?_

The anxiety stays curled in his stomach as they travel up into the mountains, on a road that cuts through a gorge carved deep between the peaks. It’s still there when they park and Otabek outfits Yuri with the gear they’d selected the night before.

“Are we going far?” Yuri asks as Otabek shows him how to strap the backpack.

“Not really. We can stop whenever we want.”

The disquiet backs off a little when they’re finally on a trail (Yuri assumes there is one and that he just can’t tell) and the air is sharp and hot and green in his nose. It feels good to push his body in a new way, as the path rises and falls in twists and turns. Sezim bounds ahead over the little hills, and then back to join them. The view is rather phenomenal, too. Yuri can’t deny that. The great river crashes noisily over boulders; even when the path cuts away and they can’t see it, it still echoes around them.

Yuri is grateful for the sturdy boots and, when he slips and has to catch himself, the gloves Otabek insisted he wear. Otabek’s hand shoots out immediately to help him but Yuri waves him off and rights himself quickly.

They don’t talk. Not even when they stop to catch their breath, or drink water, or scarf down power bars. At first, Yuri sneaks glances at Otabek, wondering if he should be making conversation, but Otabek looks completely at peace. Yuri bites his lip and focuses on not tripping. In time, the simple exertion and fresh air dissolve his anxiety. He’s outside all the time, he thinks, but he hasn’t been _outside_ in ages.

The sun is beating down on them when the path leads them right up to the river. It’s wider here, flowing a little more slowly, but it’s still a fucking giant _river_ and Yuri’s apprehension skyrockets when he sees Sezim wagging her tail on the other bank and realizes they’re crossing it. Otabek is already partway across before he looks back and sees Yuri hasn’t followed.

“Um,” Yuri says. “I’m used to rivers having bridges?”

Otabek comes back to him at once. “Here.” He holds out his hand. “Step where I step.”

Yuri takes his hand—clutches it, really, absurdly grateful for the steady reassurance of it—and obeys. Close to the bank, it’s pebbled, but further out they’re stepping on larger rocks, slippery with moss and other river things that Yuri knows nothing about. The water is up almost to his knees; it’s shockingly cold. He grips Otabek’s hand more tightly.

“The river is fed by the glaciers up in the mountains, which is why it’s so cold even in the dead of summer.” Otabek speaks in a low, even tone. His eyes are on the other bank. “Up here, it’s very steep and narrow in sections but below us it levels out and is full of rafters. I only have been rafting once—Roman made me—and I fell out twice. The boys still make fun of me for it.”

And they’re across. Yuri releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. For the last half of the crossing, he hadn’t even looked down, which he knew was the point of Otabek’s story. Yuri turns to him.

“You fell out _twice_?”

Otabek laughs. “I’ll carry the shame to my grave.”

Sezim chooses that moment to shake the water out of her coat, sending a spray of droplets over Yuri and Otabek. In the aftermath of them both sputtering and wiping off their faces, Otabek’s words from his first night in Almaty come back to him. _You’re my friend. You can do all of that and worse and it would still be true_. It sticks in his head as they continue up the incline.

The river’s roar fades as they leave the gorge behind and emerge onto an alpine meadow. It stretches for miles and miles, green ridges softly rolling away into the sharp, jagged mountains. The expanse is so vast Yuri feels a little bit like they might be the only two people left in the world. Just him, Otabek, and Sezim, strolling along the spines of the hills, silent for fear of waking the sleeping giants.

Otabek stops when they come to an overhang, where two of the rises collide to form a natural cave, bordered by a copse of pines.

“We’ll camp here tonight,” he says, shouldering off his pack. 

Yuri sprawls out on the sun-warmed grass as Otabek goes in search of firewood. His muscles ache pleasantly, just south of too much. He’s used to feeling north of too much about every day, and without the view for consolation. He’s tracing the outline of the mountains with one finger when Otabek comes back. He snorts and drops the armful of firewood.

“Thanks for the help,” Otabek says.

“I’m not sure why you thought I’d be a helpful person to have along,” Yuri snips, and closes his eyes.

“Sometimes I think you might be half-cat.”

“I’m one hundred percent cat, you asshole, thank you very much,” Yuri says and throws Otabek the finger without looking at him.

All the same, Yuri rouses himself to help Otabek prepare dinner, though beyond making the fire there isn’t much to do. Yuri is half-irritated and half-impressed with his thorough preparations; he has little foil packets of potatoes, onion, butter, and beef already seasoned and folded up, kept cold between frozen water bottles. He shows Yuri how to bank the fire and nestle the foil in so that it’s heated on all sides by the embers. It smells incredible, and Yuri is suddenly so ravenous that he burns himself in his rush to get the packet out when Otabek says it’s ready.

Otabek tosses him a spoon and an extra water bottle. “Hydrate,” he says. “The altitude can get to you.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Yes, dad.” He crosses his legs and digs in. Otabek reclines on the other side of the fire, propping himself up on one elbow. “Do you do this a lot?”

“Camp? Now that I’m in Almaty, yes. The city can feel so crowded. And Sez loves it.” He’s letting her lick his spoon. Yuri laughs.

“Only guests, hm?”

Otabek has the good grace to look a bit ashamed. “Well. Maybe not.”

After dinner, the tent requires setting up, and though Yuri just wants to lay back down and bask in the sunset, Otabek insists he needs the extra pair of hands.

“Don’t you usually do this by yourself?” Yuri grumbles, holding a stake while Otabek hammers it into the ground.

“It goes much faster with help,” Otabek pants. He’s taken off his jacket and he’s just wearing a white tank underneath. With the sun behind him, he looks like some sort of fucking Greek god, painted in broad lines of copper and bronze. “Yura.”

Yuri realizes that while he’s been staring, Otabek has moved on to the next corner of the tent. Otabek raises his eyebrows at him and Yuri scrambles over. “Sorry,” he says. He feels the blush on the back of his neck and then over his entire body when he remembers Otabek is standing directly above him. As Otabek is endowed with an overabundance of tact, he says nothing, Yuri’s pride remains mostly unbroken, and the tent gets set up without further disaster.

He refuses to help anymore after that, claiming exhaustion. He lays down in the grass with Sezim as his pillow and critiques Otabek’s form while he finishes setting everything up. (And if he secretly admires his form too, well, there’s no one who will know.)

“If you arrange the sleeping bags like that, you’ll kick me in the face when you get up in the night.”

“I don’t get up in the night. I sleep like a rock.”

“Fine. When you wake up at an ungodly hour to go commune with the sun and I continue to sleep like a normal person.”

“Oh my god.” Otabek shoves the sleeping bags around so his is right up against the tent’s opening. “Is that better?”

“Yes, much better.”

The sky is totally, utterly clear and Yuri can pick out Ursa Major and Minor over their heads as night continues to fall. He doesn’t know many constellations beyond those—but then he sees Pisces as well.

“Hey—when is your birthday?” he asks Otabek.

“October 31. Why?”

“Oh my god.” Yuri shoots up. “You’re a fucking _Scorpio_?!”

“I guess?” Otabek sits back on his heels. “I’ve never bothered to look.”

“Oh no,” moans Yuri. “This is a disaster.”

“How so?”

“We’re both water signs. Which means the most sensible person here is Sezim.”

“I am extremely sensible,” Otabek says, affronted, because being called irresponsible is a normal thing to be offended by. “And you don’t really believe all that, do you?”

“I don’t know if I believe it, per say, but—it’s fun. You know. Fun.”

The look Otabek gives him is positively scathing. “I know what fun is. Who’s the person who brought you out here in the first place?”

“You call hiking for hours in the hot sun and sleeping on the ground fun?”

“I haven’t heard any complaints thus far. Do you have any?”

“No,” Yuri is forced to admit. Despite his protestations, he’s enjoyed the day tremendously. But still. “It’s just not what I mean when I say _fun_.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shit that’s a little less wholesome, maybe. Reading your horoscope. Driving too fast. Drinking. Dancing. Going out. Having _fun_.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not above all that.” Otabek flops down on his stomach beside Yuri. He weaves his fingers through the grass.

“You mean to tell me that you go clubbing?”

“Of course. I DJ, even.”

Yuri is really, truly dumbfounded at this revelation. “You _DJ_? Since when?!” If you had asked Yuri what secret occupation could shock him the most when it came to Otabek, this was probably at the very top of the list, even more so than ‘prolific serial killer’ or ‘actually a wizard.’

Otabek shrugs. “I’ve been doing it for a few years. Roman encouraged me to get started, actually, when I moved to Almaty.”

Yuri sits up. “I can’t believe you haven’t told me this. I can’t believe I didn’t know! You’ve never even posted about it on _Instagram_.”

“Not everyone puts their entire life on Instagram, Yuri.”

“No, but—my god. You’ve really deprived me of knowing this. I can’t believe you.”

“My apologies. If I’d known it’d bring you so much pleasure, I’d’ve told you sooner,” Otabek says, grinning up at him.

Yuri lays back down, mollified. “Are you DJing soon? I have to see it.”

“I tend to set it up only a week or two in advance. I’ll reach out.”

“Good.” The scenario is playing out in Yuri’s head—Otabek, elevated above the crowd, behind the DJ’s table, and Yuri, one of the masses, surrendering to the music. Yuri is very into it.

“Do you go out much, in St. Petersburg?” Otabek asks, and Yuri is pulled out of the fantasy and back to reality. The club in his imagination turns into the light-up dancefloor of Achtung Baby and Yuuri’s arm is around his waist.

“Sometimes. We went out over White Nights. A couple weeks ago.” He’s getting that sinking in his stomach once again. Jesus. If he just fucking _told_ Otabek, every conversation wouldn’t be this fucking tinder box. Otabek would understand. He’d probably even be very sympathetic and have lots of practical advice. And he wouldn’t tiptoe around Yuri.

So, Yuri tells him, before he loses his nerve.

“I kissed Yuuri,” he says into the open air.

Otabek is silent beside him. He props himself up onto his elbows. “Christ,” he says. “When?”

“On that night. When we went clubbing. It was... partly just a huge misunderstanding and partly me being a lovesick fuckhead. It went terribly, as you might expect.”

Otabek’s tone is very careful. “We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“No, it's—good. It's good.” Yuri suddenly _wants_ to talk about it. He wants to get it out so that it isn't suffocating him so entirely anymore. And he’s not crying—at least, not yet. “We went to see the opening of the bridges. Viktor wasn't there, obviously. Yuuri cried. We talked a couple days later and it was okay for a little while.” He has to stop and breath again. “But then I realized that I felt something for him. I don't know. It got messy. It all came out in front of Viktor. I said I had feelings for Yuuri, and then I left.”

Otabek lets out a low whistle. “That sounds terrible.”

“It was horrible.” _You don’t. Yuri, you don’t_ echoes through his head.

“So you’re in love with him? With Yuuri, that is.” 

“Yes. Maybe.” Yuri takes a deep breath. “I’m not sure if I know how that feels.” He registers that it's true only as it comes out of his mouth. He _doesn't_ know how it feels. Is he in love with Yuuri, or is he just... infatuated?

“Hm. That's fair,” Otabek says. “It’s hard to discern, sometimes.”

Yuri considers this. And makes a discovery. “I think I’m mad at Yuuri,” he says.

“How so?”

“He just... all he wanted to do was keep it from Viktor. He set this narrative of, ‘oh, we were drunk, you got carried away,’ and he didn’t want to hear anything else. He wanted it to be normal immediately. And I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

“Hm,” Otabek says.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“No, I just—people are complicated. Relationships are hard. It sounds like he sacrificed his relationship with you to avoid disrupting his relationship with Viktor over it.”

Yuri’s not sure what to make of that. It’s unfair, certainly, but then, as Yuuri said, Viktor is his husband. “It was a shitty situation,” is all he can manage.

“It sounds like it. And it sounds like you got the really shitty end of the stick.”

“I couldn’t tell anyone,” Yuri whispers. “It was this huge secret and I felt like if I was the one who broke the facade, that I would be the one left out in the cold.”

“Did they ask you to leave?”

“No, I—” Yuri feels his hackles raise at that. “They _wanted_ me gone.”

“Yura. Haven’t they been calling you nonstop since you left?”

“I blocked their numbers. And I bet they only want to make themselves feel better.”

“Mila knows, though?”

“Obviously.” He recalls his conversation with her and finds himself softening a bit. “And she said Viktor begged her to tell me he was sorry.”

“Well.”

“You can say I told you so,” Yuri says. “I know you want to.”

“I just want you to see. I’m sure they love you. And they want you to be okay, even when things are hard and messy.”

Yuri isn’t crying, because a single tear escaping from each eye and sliding down into his hair doesn’t count as crying. He turns his face into Sezim’s flank. “I hope you’re right,” he says quietly.

“Time will tell. Anyway, let’s roast some marshmallows.”

True to form, Otabek has brought a giant pack of marshmallows. Yuri surreptitiously wipes his face while Otabek digs them out and finds some sticks, and they sit side by side to roast them over the fire like they’re in an American sitcom. Yuri’s goes up in flames several times before they figure out the optimal distance from the embers. 

Once it’s golden brown, Yuri pulls his out and prods at it expectantly. “Aren’t you supposed to have chocolate as well? And, like, biscuits to put them on?” he asks.

“Honestly? I have no idea. Just eat it like this.” Otabek chomps the marshmallow straight off the stick. It trails gooey strands and part of it smears over his chin. Yuri laughs delightedly at the sight.

“You’re a mess,” he tells him. Otabek just gives him a giant, open-mouthed smile and Yuri laughs so hard he tips over backwards.

Yuri’s still smiling when it’s finally time for bed and they head for the tent. There’s a bit of shuffling around as Sezim decides where she wants to sleep, but Yuri’s already drifting off by the time Otabek zips the opening closed, his body loose from the hiking and the fire and the food.

“Night, Yura,” he says.

“Night,” Yuri murmurs. Otabek’s steady breath mingles with Sezim’s. The wind outside sings a gentle counterpoint and carries him off to sleep.

-

The hike back the next day is leisurely. They take their time, pausing to explore little offshoots of the path. Otabek shows Yuri some ancient rock carvings that are supposedly from millennia ago.

“How do they know they’re that old? How do you know someone didn’t just buy them in the gift shop and dump them here?” Yuri wants to know.

“Because geologists who know a lot about this sort of thing have looked at them. Not everything is a conspiracy theory.”

Yuri can’t defend himself against that, so he just throws a handful of pine needles at Otabek and continues walking.

It’s even hotter today, the sun lashing down on the tops of their heads. Yuri’s back is drenched in sweat between his thin jacket and the backpack. When they come to the river crossing again, he unclips it and splashes the icy water over his face and neck. Otabek follows suit.

“Barely twenty-four hours in the wilderness and you’re already a natural,” Otabek says. He rejects the cupped-hands-method in favor of simply dunking his entire head under the current. Yuri, never able to resist when such an opportunity presents itself, reaches over, places a hand on the middle of Otabek’s back, and shoves him.

Otabek goes sprawling in the shallows. When he emerges, spluttering, he’s wearing a look of such utter astonishment that Yuri’s laugh rings out around the gorge.

Otabek rights himself, slicking back his hair, which has all fallen in his eyes. Yuri can’t breath, he’s laughing so hard. “Oh my god—your _face_ , holy shit—”

Otabek’s eyes are glittering. “You’re really in for it now,” he says quietly. Yuri immediately scrambles for the shore.

“Oh, no, no, no, you _don’t_ —”

Otabek advances on him. “What, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

Yuri trips over Sezim in his haste to stay out of Otabek’s reach—she yips in protest and scampers away, and Yuri falls flat on his back, whacking his elbow on a rock, and then Otabek is on him, seizing him around the waist and bodily flinging both of them into the water.

The splash they make is tremendous—Yuri’s head is only fully submerged for about a second, and then he manages to get his knees under him so he can knock Otabek back and pounce on him, grabbing both his wrists in the process.

“I will _fuck you up_ , asshole,” he yells in his face, dunking him on every word. Otabek laughs, then chokes as the water splashes over his face, and finally he pushes Yuri off.

“All right, all right, I give, you win,” he gasps. Yuri relents, and they both crawl back to the bank and sit there, heaving.

Yuri’s soaked from head to toe, but on the positive side, he’s not at all hot anymore. Now that the coast is clear, Sezim comes back and joins them, sitting primly as if to emphasize how well-behaved she is compared to her animalistic humans.

They look out at the river and the gorge beyond in silence for a few moments, and then Otabek says, “I needed a shower, anyway,” and they both burst out laughing once more.

-

After they return to Almaty, Sunday evening is a haze of laundry and dinner and actual showers, and then it’s Monday again. As usual, Otabek is gone by the time Yuri wakes up. He goes into the kitchen to find the coffeemaker out on the counter, half full and hot. There’s a note next to it in Otabek’s neat script that reads _I don’t know anything about coffee, but I followed the directions and I guess it’s supposed to taste like that. Enjoy xx_. 

Yuri unsticks the note carefully and folds it, sliding it into his pocket. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t want to throw it in the trash. He finds a mug in the cabinet and pours himself a cup.

The coffee is good. Great, even. He drinks two cups with his eggs on toast, and considers taking a travel mug with him on his run before he realizes that would be incredibly impractical and desperate.

“We’ll stop and get more coffee at Lina’s shop afterwards,” he tells Sezim as they leave the apartment.

He beats his personal best by more than twenty seconds on the third kilometer, his feet barely touching the pavement, and it isn’t just the caffeine. He feels so buoyant that he’s not sure he isn’t just flying, Sezim racing after him.

The shop is busier than usual so Lina can’t join them for her break, but she does slip Yuri an almond biscotti with his cappuccino. “See you tomorrow,” she says.

Yuri eats it as they walk home and it’s delicious and crisp and it feels like such a perfect morning after such a marvelous weekend he calls Mila just so he can share it with someone. He manages to catch her on a breather, but just from the sound of her _hello_ , Yuri knows something’s up.

“We don’t need to talk about it right now. I want to hear about your weekend,” Mila says when he asks. “I loved the photo you sent.”

When they’d gotten back in cellphone range the evening before, Yuri had sent her a photo of Otabek and Sezim walking in the meadow. He’d taken it from behind, so Otabek’s face was hidden, but it was golden and peaceful and more than a little magical. He’d sent it to Mila with only ‘my weekend’ as the caption and Mila had sent back seven heart-eyes emojis.

He knows, though, that he won’t be able to hold a conversation until she gets it out, so he says, “No, tell me first.”

She sighs, then says, “I think you need to call Yakov.”

Yuri stops walking. _Damnit_. He knew she would bring it up eventually, but he really doesn’t want to think about it, because it means thinking about the future and Yuri really doesn’t want to do that either.

“I know, I know,” Mila continues when he says nothing. “But I’m worried he might lose his mind. He doesn’t have Georgi to yell at so he’s taking it all out on me. I can handle it—” she says when Yuri starts to apologize”—but I really, really think you need to give him an answer.”

Yuri bites his lip. He wants to stamp his foot and refuse to deal with it, but he doesn’t, because he’s supposedly a fucking adult who handles his shit. “I’ll call him. I know I need to. I’ll do it now.”

“Good boy. You can call me after if you need to.”

“I will. Love you.

“Love you too. Bye.”

He takes his time showering and doing a bit of cleaning when he gets home—to Otabek’s apartment, he corrects himself, his stomach doing a nervous flip when he notices the mental slip. It’s not that he’s putting off calling Yakov—it’s just... He can’t even think up an excuse. His life feels somewhat like a series of meals interspersed with phone calls and he decides he’ll need to pick up some decently wholesome hobbies if it’s going to be like this for awhile.

Finally, when he can’t avoid it any longer, even though has absolutely no idea what he’s going to say, he goes out on the little balcony and dials Yakov’s number.

“Yura,” comes Yakov’s gruff voice.

“Hello,” Yuri says. The nerves turn him into some sort of weirdly formal robot. “How are you?”

“I am fine, Yura. How are you,” Yakov responds.

Yuri takes a deep breath and dives in. “I’m well. Look... I am very sorry for leaving without any explanation, especially if I worried you.”

“I’m used to your stunts,” Yakov says, “but this was entirely different. You had everyone very concerned.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad you’ve called so we can get this straightened out. Where are you?”

“I... I can’t tell you that.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because I’m not coming back. Not for awhile, at least.” He knows it with utter certainty the moment he says it. (It’s funny how often that seems to happen lately. Yuri is sure there’s a lesson to be learned there but he doesn’t have time to consider it, because Yakov is making some ominously displeased noises.)

“Yura—” Yakov says, but Yuri speaks over him, the words flowing out in an assured torrent.

“Don’t bother trying to change my mind, because it won’t happen. I’m not skating in the GP series this year. I’m sorry if that disappoints you but I can’t do anything about it.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Yakov barks. “I understand that it’s been a difficult season and we can find ways to let you have more time to yourself, but you’ve had your little escape now and it’s time to get back to work.”

“I’m tired,” Yuri says. “I’m very tired, and I’m taking a break. A real one. I don’t care if it fucks up your plan or whatever.”

“Don’t use such language with me! And this isn’t about my plan, it’s about your future! All of this is for you, Yura!”

“I’m sure you believe that,” Yuri tells him. “But if it is about me, you’ll listen to what I’m saying. And I’m saying I’m not competing in the Grand Prix this year.”

“Yura,” Yakov says, “don’t destroy your future, don’t throw everything away that you’ve worked so hard for—”

“Goodbye,” Yuri says, and hangs up. His hands are shaking and he just stops himself from pitching his phone off the balcony and into the alley; he settles instead for kicking the wrought iron railing as hard as he can—and only remembers that he’s barefoot when pain shoots through his foot.

“FUCK,” he yells to the empty street. It’s so entirely, utterly _infuriating_ to be surrounded by people who think they know what’s best for him, who manipulate him to their own end and refuse to recognize that that’s what they’re doing, that they’re pursuing _their own_ agendas, and then expect him to just fucking play along. Yuri is fucking sick to death of it.

He manages to calm down enough to go inside and make lunch, though he slams everything around more loudly than is necessary. He doesn’t break anything and it makes him feel better, so why the fuck does it matter? _It doesn’t_ , he thinks vehemently.

He makes a sandwich and eats it standing in the middle of the kitchen, too agitated to even sit down. He knows he has to get out of the house or he’ll never calm the fuck down, so after scrubbing his dishes, he looks up directions on his phone and goes to the closest bookstore.

It isn’t until he’s banged through the front door of the shop and is confronted by the rows and rows of shelves and bright overhead lights that he realizes he has no idea what he’s doing there. Christ, the last time he was in a bookstore was probably when his grandfather took him as a kid.

“Can I help you?” asks the middle-aged woman at the counter. 

“No,” Yuri says too harshly, then, more pleasantly, “no, thank you, I’m just looking.” He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and picks an aisle at random to wander down. He can’t even remember the last book he bought. It was probably a comic, or a fantasy novel, or something else from back when he had free time and skating wasn’t his entire life. He only read in school when it was absolutely necessary, preferring to squeak by on charm and good luck.

He loiters in the store for ages, just pulling books off shelves at random and flipping through them. He reads several picture books in the kids’ section, their bright cheerfulness and simplicity making him smile against his will. Eventually, so he has something to show for the afternoon (and for his week, honestly), he selects a book on astronomy (it has lots of photos of constellations and charts to help figure out what stars you’re looking at depending on the time of year), a memoir by an American outdoorsman, and a mystery novel, just because he likes the cover.

The woman at the register raises her eyebrows at the eclectic collection. “Big reader, are you?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Yuri says. He takes the bag of books and hastily leaves so he doesn’t have to come up with answers to any more questions that make him feel that itch of anxiety between his shoulderblades, like he’s an insufficient person who doesn’t even know whether or not he likes to fucking read. He zips his jacket up to his chin and tucks the bag under his arm to walk home.

He’s flipping through the astronomy book when Otabek gets home that evening. The giant, full-color drawings of galaxies and stars and constellations make it feel a bit like an adult picture book. Yuri is pleased with the purchase.

“What do you have there?” Otabek asks him.

“An astronomy book. I went to the bookstore. Beka, do you like to read?”

Otabek looks a little thrown. “Yes? I don’t have much time to do it. But I would say I enjoy reading.”

“Hm,” Yuri says. He spreads his hand over a diagram of a red giant. Otabek comes into the living room and sits on the arm of the couch, across the room from Yuri.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know if I like to read,” Yuri says. “Is that normal?”

Otabek works very hard to keep the pity off his face, but Yuri still sees the edges of it in the way his brows pull together. He looks back down at the book.

“That’s fucked up, isn’t it? That I don’t even know that? It’s more than a little pathetic.”

“Yura. It’s not pathetic. You have quite a bit of time, you know. You’re only seventeen.”

“I suppose,” Yuri says. “I talked to Yakov today.”

“And?”

“It didn’t go... not terribly.”

Otabek takes a second to puzzle that out. He crosses his arms over his chest. “So it went poorly.”

Yuri sighs. “I told him I’m not competing in the Grand Prix.”

“I imagine he didn’t take that well.”

“You imagine correctly.”

“And Georgi isn’t either, and Viktor’s freshly retired. He must feel like he’s staring down the end of an era.”

Yuri hadn’t even considered that, but he doesn’t say so out loud. Instead, he says, “Do you mind if I stay here? For awhile?”

“Not at all.” Yuri looks at him; Otabek is wearing a very small, delicate smile. “I’m glad to have you.”

Yuri shakes his hair back. “I’ll have to do better at wearing out my welcome, then.”

-

It turns out Yuri’s shit Mila mailed from St. Petersburg came while they were away over the weekend, and was just mistakenly delivered to the neighbors. The nice husband from apartment 403 across the hall knocks on Otabek’s door while they’re eating dinner and asks if they were expecting four quite large boxes, and if so, would they like to come get them, as they were blocking the way to the family bathroom.

It’s certainly a good thing, Yuri thinks as Otabek helps him lug the boxes across the hall and into his apartment, that Yuri had just asked him about staying on, because otherwise this would have seemed extremely presumptuous. Not that it isn’t—it’s an outrageous amount of shit, as if Mila’s never expecting him to come back—but it would have been _too_ presumptuous. This is Yuri’s normal level of presumption, and therefore he can get away with it.

Otabek brings him some extra hangers from his closet and Yuri hands him clothes that go in the closet and tosses clothes that go... somewhere else, since the spare room has no dresser, in the corner for now.

Then, midway through the second box, Yuri unearths his skates.

Mila has swathed them in Yuri’s entire t-shirt collection, soakers on and a tee stuffed in each boot so they maintain their shape. The guards, spare laces, and leather wax are in a bag underneath. Mila’s stuck a little note onto the bag— _just in case_ , it says.

Yuri folds it and slides it into his pocket, where it joins Otabek’s note from the coffee that morning. He carefully takes the skates out and puts them aside. Neither he nor Otabek mention them, and they unpack the rest of the boxes in silence.

-

The skates sit there in the corner for the next several weeks, studiously ignored by Yuri whenever he’s in the room. Which isn’t often—Yuri manages to keep himself surprisingly busy as summer wanes into early autumn. He adds regular visits to the bookstore to his rounds, picking up whatever strikes his fancy and, before long, whatever the woman at the counter recommends he read next. He takes a book to the café and reads out loud to Lina on her breaks. He and Otabek go on hikes on the weekends while the weather stays nice. They cook dinner together. Otabek continues to make coffee before he leaves in the morning, even though only Yuri drinks it. It’s starting to become disturbingly domestic, in the nicest way.

Then, one Wednesday in early September, Lina plunks down her coffee, sits at the table and affixes him with a ferocious glare.

“What?” Yuri asks, entirely unsettled.

“You’re Yuri _Plisetsky_ ,” she says, distressed. She holds her phone out for him to see.

Oh, _fuck_. He takes it; it’s open to Twitter, and scattered across the timeline are grainy photos of him and Otabek at the grocery store, from the previous weekend if Yuri’s recognizing his jacket correctly. All mostly from the same angle, and taken by the same person, apparently. They were arguing over what kind of mustard to get—Yuri prefers honey mustard, which Otabek maintains isn’t even mustard—but of course that’s not obvious in the photo. The captions range from _OMG YURIO HAS BEEN LOCATED CALL OFF THE SEARCH_ on the Yuri’s Angels fan accounts to _Otabek Altin and Yuri Plisetsky: lovebirds on ice?_ on the gossip blogs to _did Otabek Altin kidnap and brainwash Yuri Plisetsky into dropping out of the Grand Prix Series?_ on the actual sports news outlets. God, Yuri doesn’t miss Twitter at all.

Yuri hands Lina her phone back. She looks a little shell-shocked, as if she can’t believe she was right about him being famous more than a month ago.

“Why... were you searching for me?”

“I wasn’t searching for _you_ ,” she says. “Your name came up along with Otabek’s. I can’t believe you _know_ him.”

“You’re a fan?”

“I’m Kazakhstani, of course I’m a fan!! The boy is a legend, a national hero! Do you live with him?”

Yuri considers lying, but he really doesn’t see the use. Lina has seemed mostly sane (up to this point), and doesn’t come across as the stalker type. So, he says yes.

Her eyes bore into him. “Are you _secret lovers_?”

“Oh my god, Lina, _no_ , what the hell—”

“Why else are you hiding? Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“I’m not hiding, I’m just not making a big deal out of it! This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen!”

“Wait, you live with him and yet he’s never once come with you to my shop? You’ve never brought him here?” Lina looks rather bereft.

“He doesn’t drink coffee.”

“We serve tea as well!”

“Oh my god. I’ll bring him, I will, so long as you promise that you will not be weird about it.”

“I will not be weird. I will be entirely professional and respectful.” She sits back and takes a long sip of coffee. “I knew I recognized you. I _knew_ it. And here you had me doubting myself this whole time.”

“I’m sorry?”

She waves a hand. “It’s all right. As long as you bring Otabek Altin here, and let me serve him tea.”

“I will. I promise I will.”

Yuri’s phone is blowing up before he even leaves the café; the texts from Yakov and Mila and Lilia are the only ones he looks at (Yakov: _I hope you have not thrown away your career for a fleeting romance like Viktor_ ; Lilia: _glad to know you are somewhere safe_ ; Mila: _Y I K E S DON’T LOOK AT THE INTERNET_ ). He’s very grateful he doesn’t have access to his Twitter. He blocks JJ Leroy on Instagram when he won’t stop sending him suggestive messages about Skate Canada, and, because he feels like it’s been long enough and there isn’t really anything to hide now, unblocks both Viktor and Yuuri’s numbers from his phone and then all his social media accounts. 

“I’m sorry,” Otabek says that evening when Yuri tells him. Otabek never checks social media, relying instead on hearing updates from Yanna, who obviously hadn’t deemed this worth sharing with him. “I’m sure it had to happen some time, but it sucks all the same.”

“Reality wouldn’t wait forever,” Yuri says. He doesn’t bring up how the common narrative seems to be that he and Otabek are involved, because that just isn’t how it is between them, and Yuri doesn’t see the point in disturbing their equilibrium because of some fucking gossips with internet access. They both know how it is, and that’s all that matters to Yuri.

“No matter how much we wish it would stay at arm’s length, reality has a habit of coming after us,” Otabek muses.

“Yes, well, thank you for that nugget of wisdom.” Yuri gathers their plates from the table and starts in on the dishes.

That weekend is Otabek’s last Saturday off until Skate Canada, and he proposes a visit to the Green Bazaar, an open-air farmer’s market right in the city center. “I should go there more often, but it’s an all-day kind of shopping trip,” Otabek says on Friday.

Yuri takes no convincing. Since moving to St. Petersburg from Moscow, he hasn’t been any place longer than a few weeks except Hasetsu. It feels like a luxury to discover the nooks and crannies of Almaty, all the things the locals know and you never discover when you’re only passing through.

He is certainly grateful for Otabek’s solid presence at his side when they arrive at the market on Saturday. It’s the first real frost of the season, and Yuri is lucky Mila sent his favorite wool scarf in one of the boxes, especially when none of the rest of his scarf collection had made it. He pulls it up over his nose while they drive the few kilometers on the bike, but once they enter the enormous, two-story market, he tugs it down so he can inhale properly.

That’s the thing that hits him first: the _smell_. It’s everything all at once: spices and fruit and meat and so many more that Yuri can’t even begin to pick them apart, even with his eyes closed. There’s a woman slicing the biggest melon Yuri has ever seen at the stall directly in front of him, and then right beside her is an incredible array of dried herbs.

There are people, so many people. Yuri had almost forgotten what being engulfed in a crowd felt like. He sticks close to Otabek’s side and watches him haggle his way through every interaction, mostly in Russian but occasionally in Kazakh. He talks one older man down from two dollars a pound on some dried apricots to fifty cents, alternatively cajoling and complaining.

“That was impressive,” he tells Otabek as they move to the next stall.

Otabek smiles at him. “Do they not haggle in Russia?”

“Some, but not nearly with that level of finesse. It’s an art form.”

“They can tell I’m Kazakh so they expect it from me. Although then they see you and wonder if I’m a tourist.”

“Do I stand out so much?”

Otabek laughs. “Like a rose among thorns.”

“That’s absurd. You’re certainly the rose.”

Otabek laughs louder, eyes sparkling. “My mother would call me her rose growing up. I was the rose and my sister was the lily.”

Yuri swings around so he can look at Otabek while they walk. “How lovely. My grandfather called me a thorn in his side, so it fits perfectly.”

“He did not.”

“In addition to plenty of other affectionate terms. But that’s the one I remember most clearly, from when I was younger and more headstrong.” He falls in beside Otabek again. “‘Yurochka, you will be the death of me if you continue in this obstinate way! Your willfulness is a thorn in my side!’” Yuri does his best impression of his grandfather’s gruff grumbling. It’s an imitation born of affection, and Yuri feels a rush of homesickness, quite suddenly, for Moscow and Nikolai and the feeling of _family_. 

“‘Younger and more headstrong.’ Is that to say you aren’t so now?” Otabek is saying. He looks over and sees Yuri’s expression and the joking tone disappears at once. “Yura? What’s wrong?”

Yuri just shakes his head, so Otabek tugs him over to one of the picnic tables along the edge and makes him sit down. He disappears for a few minutes and comes back with two cups of tea. He pushes one across to Yuri and blows on his own, then looks up at Yuri expectantly.

“I’m fine,” Yuri snaps. “I don’t need to sit quietly and drink a cup of tea.”

“Maybe I need a break, then,” Otabek says blithely. He looks out at the passersby.

Yuri’s flooded with irritation for himself, for his fucking stubbornness. Otabek knows he’s lying, and Yuri knows he knows, and Otabek knows he knows and it’s all just so Yuri can save face, and he’s suddenly so sick of his own shit that he wraps his hands around the styrofoam cup and spits it out.

“I miss my grandfather.”

“Mmm. That’s very understandable. You don’t get to see him very often.”

“It’s not just that, it’s...” Yuri can’t find the words for a moment. “I miss the feeling of family. Which is my grandfather, but it was also Viktor and Yakov and Mila and... Yuuri, even.” He huffs out a breath. “It’s very childish.”

“Childish how? Everyone needs family.”

“ _You_ don’t.” Yuri hears the envy in his own voice and wishes he could take back the words. Otabek is so self-contained, like he sprang out into the world fully formed without requiring any outside help. 

“That’s not at all true. Maybe I’m a little more solitary than you, mostly because I moved around so much for so long, but I have my friends, my community. I was really lonely in Almaty until Roman moved here and we met Madiyar and the rest of the boys.”

“But that’s just it!” Yuri says, seizing the example. “How often do you see them? You haven’t them the whole time I’ve been here. I don’t think it really counts unless you see someone every day.”

“Roman comes to the rink sometimes, and Alen has classes nearby. And I don’t want to see anyone every day.”

Yuri doesn’t point out the obvious, which is that Otabek sees Yuri every day, and has since August, just about. Otabek is very careful with his words, so he’s probably not telling Yuri that he wishes he _didn’t_ see him every day. He just... doesn’t consider Yuri a friend? Family? Yuri’s not sure and he’s giving himself a headache trying to parse it, so he stops and says instead, “Maybe you’re just more mature than I am.”

“Maybe,” Otabek says, and Yuri turns on him, prepared to vehemently defend himself, until Otabek continues. “I don’t think so, though. I think we’re just different.”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Yuri says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m just saying, different people need different things.”

Yuri drains his cup of tea. “Who do you share these pearls of wisdom with when no one else is around? Do you just recite them to yourself?” He inhales, then exhales. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome, I suppose.”

They wander through the bazaar for another hour, buying and tasting things here and there, until they come upon a booth just outside where a man is roasting chilies in a large drum he turns with a handle. The smoky, rich smell is intoxicating.

“Ah!” Otabek exclaims. He pulls Yuri over to the booth. “These are the best peppers in the country. You must try some. Here, we’ll make something out of them for dinner.”

The vendor passes across a sample for Yuri to try while he bags up some for Otabek. The pepper is sweet and just the smallest bit spicy, like the smoke. 

“It’s good?” Otabek asks.

“It’s good,” Yuri says in return, and Otabek smiles.

Once more, like he did when they first entered the bazaar, Yuri closes his eyes and inhales the scent. It’s thick, meaty, luxurious. He takes another lungful through his mouth, letting it coat the back of his throat. 

When he opens his eyes, Otabek is looking at him.

Or, more specifically, Otabek is looking at his mouth. Intently. Yuri instinctively wets his lips and Otabek’s gaze flicks up to lock on Yuri’s. There is no mistaking the undisguised desire on his face. Yuri’s heart stops. It’s the most open emotion he’s ever seen on Otabek, and he can’t stop himself from taking a step forward and— 

Then, suddenly, Otabek is turning back to the vendor, smiling, holding up two fingers, and passing some cash across in exchange for a hefty bag of the peppers. He turns back to Yuri.

“Ready?” he says, as if the universe didn’t just upend itself.

Yuri nods, not trusting his voice, and falls in behind Otabek.

-

 **v-nikiforov** : DID YOU UNBLOCK ME  
**v-nikiforov** : YOU DID OH THANK GOD  
**v-nikiforov** : I am so sorry  
**v-nikiforov** : please please call me  
**v-nikiforov** : I really would like the chance to apologize, for real

-

Yuri doesn’t see Viktor’s texts until they’re back at the apartment. He glares at them while Otabek bustles around the kitchen, preparing whatever he’s going to make out of the chilies, thumbing over the messages without actually responding. Finally, because he knows he can’t avoid it forever, he slips into his room and calls Viktor.

Viktor doesn’t answer, and Yuri feels the expected wash of relief, closely followed by an unexpected wash of disappointment. Well. That’s that. He’ll just have to wait for Viktor to call him.

Which he does, five seconds later. Yuri jumps when his phone starts ringing in his hand, the ‘incoming call from Viktor Nikiforov’ notification blanking out the Instagram app. Yuri just stares at it for a moment, then punches the answer button and raises the phone to his ear. He doesn’t even get the chance to say hello before Viktor is speaking.

“ _Yura_ , oh my god, oh my god, thank god, thank you for calling me, I’m so glad you got my messages—I’m guessing you got them? And that you unblocked me?—anyway I’m sorry, I’m just so sorry, all I’ve wanted to do since you left is just say that to you, because I _am_ and I mean it, and things went so terribly that night, Yuuri and I both agree, we both could have handled it so much better, I’m so sorry you felt like you had to leave, because you didn’t, and now you’re not competing in the GP and I feel like such a complete _asshole_ —”

“Holy shit, Viktor, slow down,” Yuri says. Viktor is working himself up into an absolute state and Yuri knows it’ll end in tears if he doesn’t head him off.

Viktor cuts himself off. “Sorry, I just—sorry.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, “I got that.”

There’s a pause. “How are you doing?” Viktor asks. 

“I’m—well, I’m really well.”

“Good. God, I’m so glad to hear that. Mila wouldn’t tell us anything.

Yuri fucking loves Mila. He’s so lucky to have her. “I asked her not to.”

“I know, and I get why, it’s just been—it’s been horrible, not knowing where you were or what’s going on. I’m so glad you were with Otabek the whole time.”

“Where did you all think I was?” Yuri asks, annoyed.

“Well, Mila wouldn’t say, except that you were safe, and we really weren’t sure what the standard was, and Nikolai didn’t know anything—”

“You talked to my _grandfather_?”

“We were worried! Christ, I had no fucking idea where you were or what was going on! I was afraid you might do something stupid, or, or—”

Yuri finishes the sentence for him. “Hurt myself. You were afraid I might hurt myself.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, then Viktor says, “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No,” Yuri says, “it isn’t.”

“Yuuri told me everything, from the beginning, how he thinks it all happened, at least, and well, it sounded like this might have been going on awhile and like you felt pretty seriously about him—which now, with some distance, I can understand—”

“Viktor, oh my god, please just stop talking.” Yuri goes over and opens the curtains of the bedroom so he can look out at the sun setting over Almaty. The leaves on the tree right outside his window are turning brilliant shades of yellow and orange, edges highlighted by the color of the sun.

“Is that not how it was?” Viktor asks.

“I don’t know,” Yuri says. “I haven’t figured it out yet. And I don’t want to talk about it with you.”

“Okay. Okay, I can live with that,” Viktor says.

“Good,” Yuri says. He doesn’t say _I missed you_ , even though he did—does, even—because he’d not willing to let Viktor know just yet how awful things were for awhile.

“I missed you,” Viktor says, as if reading his mind. “It’s really not at all the same without you here.”

“No one to cook elaborate meals for, hm?”

“Mila has come over more often, but she’s much pickier.”

Yuri laughs a little. “That’s nice, for a change. Anyway, speaking of—it’s dinnertime here, so I need to go.”

“Okay. Talk soon?”

“Sure. Bye, Viktor.”

“Bye, Yura.”

Yuri tosses his phone onto his bed and goes back into the kitchen, where Otabek is in the throes of dinner preparation. He looks up from chopping onions and smiles at Yuri.

“Do you need help?” Yuri asks.

"No, I’m good. Want to put on some music? My phone is over there.”

Yuri grabs his phone, plugging it into the stereo, and wakes it up to open the music app—and sees that Otabek’s lock screen is a photo of Yuri and Sezim, from the trip to the gorge. It’s from a distance; it must have been when Otabek when to get firewood, because the sun is low in the sky and Yuri is laying in the grass with Sezim beside him. It’s all soft greens and golds, exactly like Yuri remembers it.

He puts on some music and goes to sit on the couch with Sezim, tucking his cold feet under her warm mass. He pulls over his newest book, a biography about Tchaikovsky, but just stares at the words, his mind whirling too much to actually absorb them.

Okay, first of all: there’s the conversation with Viktor, and there’s what Yuri has been not thinking about for a long time, which is what the exact nature of his feelings for Yuuri were. Are? Fuck. Yuri has no idea whether he still even has fucking feelings for Yuuri. That’s a great start.

If it were any other situation, Viktor would honestly be the perfect person to talk to. Viktor’s had plenty of partners, but it’s obvious that his relationship with Yuuri is completely different from all the rest. What was it Yuuri had said in his vows? _I feel more like myself when I’m around you_. Well, that wasn’t particularly how he’d felt around Yuuri. More like... he was seeing a different kind of life that he might want.

 _Okay, that’s becoming a little too real_ , Yuri thinks, and immediately tries to push it out of his mind. Christ, if everyone had turned out to be right this whole time, about Yuri needed to have a life off the ice, and Yuri had just identified Yuuri as some who represented a good balance of that and immediately become infatuated with him because of it...

God, Yuri thinks he might be sick. What an utterly immature thing to do. _It’s like I don’t know myself at all_. He feels panic rising in his chest.

Nope, no, definitely done thinking about that for now. Yuri looks back down at the book and tries to read about Tchaikovsky’s first attempts at writing an opera.

“How’s the book?” Otabek asks.

“As dry as the multiple martinis Yakov swears he doesn’t drink after all our competitions,” Yuri replies. He slams the book shut.

“You do love your flowery similes,” Otabek observes mildly from the kitchen. 

Yuri flushes immediately. A comment like that from anyone else would earn them an instantly sneered _get fucked_. But in Otabek’s measured tone, it just serves to make Yuri feel very foolish and very, very young. 

He needs to pleat his fingers in Sezim’s hair for several moments before he can trust himself to speak. 

“Beka... do you think I'm—you would tell me if—"

Otabek stands quietly in the kitchen, pots and pans spread out before him, and waits for Yuri to gather his words. 

“You would tell me, right, if you—if you thought I was stupid or—or immature, or an actual brat, not jokingly, right?”

He regrets the sincerity as soon as it leave his mouth. To try and take it back would make him look twice as bad so he stews silently on the couch, waiting. Otabek drifts out of the kitchen and into the living room. 

“Yura...” Otabek begins. 

“Nevermind,” Yuri bursts out before he can stop himself. “It’s fine.” He looks away, towards the balcony, but the drapes are drawn.

“Why do you ask that?”

“No reason,” Yuri says tightly.

Otabek waits, but Yuri really can’t bring himself to say anything more, so eventually Otabek just says, “All right,” and returns to the kitchen.

They don’t talk much over dinner, which is a wonderfully spicy dish of chicken and tomatoes, studded with raisins, and Yuri knows Otabek is giving him space. He supposes he should be grateful for that, because he doesn’t much feel like making conversation. Otabek is making tea after dinner and Yuri is doing the dishes when Otabek finally breaks the quiet.

“Do you want to come to the rink tomorrow? I wouldn’t mind getting your thoughts on my programs.”

“Sure,” Yuri says, surprising himself. “That sounds nice.”

Otabek nods and they lapse back into silence.

-

The next morning, Yuri manages to rouse himself out of bed at a reasonable time. He’s dressed and in the kitchen just as Otabek is preparing to make coffee.

Yuri stops him. “We should go to the café. Lina made me promise to bring you.”

“Who is Lina and why did she extract such a promise from you?” Otabek asks.

“She’s the barista and she’s a fan. Let’s go.”

They leave their gear in the apartment and walk over to the café. This early, it’s not very busy so Yuri gets to see Lina’s eyes go entirely round the moment they come in the door. Her jaw seems to drop in slow motion, but snaps shut when they walk up to the counter.

“Good morning,” Yuri says. “Lina, this is Otabek. Otabek, this is Lina.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Otabek says, and smiles. He looks at Yuri, still smiling, but it has an edge to it, as if Otabek is saying _what have you gotten me into?_ Yuri bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“It is very nice to meet you,” Lina says, in a convincing impression of someone who has no idea who Otabek is.

They order—a cappuccino for Yuri and a black tea for Otabek—and Otabek wanders around to look at the shop while they wait. Lina watches him go, then whips her head around to lock onto Yuri.

“ _Oh my god!_ ” she mouths.

“ _Be cool!_ ” Yuri mouths back, then “Lovely, isn’t it?” to Otabek when he comes back over to them. Lina has plastered an unconvincing smile onto her face that makes her look like she has indigestion.

“Very. You come here every morning?”

“Just about,” says Yuri. “Sezim and I come after my run.”

“The coffee must be good,” Otabek says.

“We have the best coffee in the city,” Lina says. “We’re known for it, as well as our family atmosphere.” She winks at Yuri. He grins back.

“Well, maybe I’ll finally develop a taste for it,” Otabek says.

He excuses himself to make a phone call outside and the moment the door closes behind him, Lina lets out a little shriek. “Oh my god. _Otabek Altin_ just came to my shop. Otabek Altin just ordered tea from me!”

“He’s a normal person,” Yuri says. He can’t remember the last time he was nervous about meeting someone famous. Maybe when he first met Viktor, or Yuuri, but it would have been very deep down, under layers of false confidence and bravado.

“He’s so much shorter in the flesh! He’s very compact.”

“I suppose,” Yuri says. Lina shakes herself all over with excitement.

“You must bring him by as often as you can. My sister will die when I tell her.”

Yuri makes Otabek try the cappuccino as they walk back to the apartment. Otabek sips it very delicately, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“It’s good, I suppose. I think I can see the charm,” he says, which Yuri accepts as a win.

Once they’re back at the apartment, Yuri goes back to his room to throw a few things in a bag for the rink. He grabs the Tchaikovsky book, his phone charger, and, at the last second, his skates. He stuffs it all in the backpack and zips it shut. Otabek is waiting impatiently at the front door, so he shoves his feet into his shoes and they bundle out of the building to Otabek’s bike, and they’re speeding off across town in no time.

The rink is much smaller and more cramped than the St. Petersburg rink. Still, it’s an ice skating rink, buzzing with the same energy that’s universal, regardless of continent or language, the siren call of the ice cutting through any other thoughts.

Yanna remembers Yuri immediately, and brushes past Yuri’s outstretched hand to hug him. “Lovely to see you again, Yuri. How have you been?”

“Very well, thank you,” Yuri says, a little taken aback. He hugs her back and hopes she doesn’t mind him being here.

That’s cleared up right away, when Yanna pulls back and asks, “Are you here to watch, or are you going to join in?”

Yuri looks at Otabek, who just shrugs. He looks back at Yanna. “A little of both, I guess?” He hasn’t been on the ice in ages and suddenly it sounds like the nicest thing in the world.

Yanna nods, once, and Yuri finds himself pulled along into the off-ice warm-ups and exercises and stretches as if he’s always been part of them, here in Almaty. Yanna gets on him about his hip turnout the moment he goes into the groin stretch, and the way she snaps at him to watch his knee is so much like the way Yakov says it, Yuri has to smile.

He doesn’t do much once they’re on the ice, just circles the rink in slow crossovers, letting his body get used to the feeling once again. He had forgotten how much he loves it: the speed, the grace, the _shush_ of the blades, the sensation of flying when he really gets going.

He hears Yanna call out to Otabek, and turns in time to see Otabek take up a position in the center of the ice. Yuri pushes over to the edge, and stands there as the music starts and Otabek moves through the program.

It’s magnificent. Otabek is in tune with the music in an entirely new way, emotion breathing new life into his ever-masterful technical skills. Before, his singular determination was what shone through the most, but now there’s a whole array of feeling. Yuri is so engrossed he doesn’t even hear the notes Yanna is yelling out during the whole program. Otabek nails every single one of his jumps, including the quad flip and another killer combination, right near the end, though Yuri doesn’t know it’s near the end until the music stops and he realizes that was Otabek’s short program.

Otabek and Yanna confer in the middle of the rink, Yanna clearly pleased even as she lists corrections to be made. Yuri stays out of earshot to avoid seeming like an eavesdropper, but he does drift over once Otabek goes to the side for water.

“That was incredible,” Yuri tells him. Otabek smiles briefly, still breathing hard.

“You think so?” he says.

“I know so. My god. I’m glad I’m not up against you.”

The smile fades. “I’m not,” Otabek says. “I wish you were going to be there. In Regina.” He takes another drink of water. “But I understand why you won’t be.”

Yuri doesn’t know what to say. “I”ll cheer you on from here,” is all he can muster.

“I know you will,” Otabek says.

-

The next few weeks fly by, and before he knows it, Yuri is helping Otabek pack for Skate Canada.

“Are you bring extra Ace bandages? I always forget and have to ask one of the other skaters when I want to ice,” Yuri says, from where he’s folding Otabek’s warm-up gear on Otabek’s bed.

“Yanna has a kit with them,” Otabek says from the bathroom.

”Good,” Yuri says. He arranges the clothes inside of Otabek’s already neatly-packed suitcase. He fingers the freshly pressed Kazakhstan jacket. “Are you nervous?”

Otabek comes out of the bathroom with his toiletries kit and kneels to place it in the suitcase. “No,” he responds. “I’m not looking forward to the flights, though.”

“Mm, that’s the good thing about flying from St. Petersburg. The flights are shorter.” 

“Does it matter, when you’re still crisscrossing the globe for more than a day?”

“Good point,” Yuri says. “Regardless. You’re going to do very well. I just know it.”

Otabek peers up at him from where he’s rearranging his socks. “Do you actually think so, or are you just hoping I beat JJ Leroy?”

Yuri snatches the paired socks out of Otabek’s hands and throws them across the room. Otabek is too startled to even try to stop him. “See if I ever express my confidence in you ever again, asshole,” Yuri says.

Otabek laughs and goes to fetch the socks. “My apologies. I won’t doubt you if you don’t doubt me.”

“I’ve never doubted you. How dare you accuse me of such a thing.”

Otabek laughs again. Then, more seriously, he says, “But really, it’ll make me feel a lot better to know you’re here rooting for me.”

“Just maybe not live, what with the twelve hour time difference.”

“That’s acceptable.”

-

Otabek leaves early the next morning and Sezim whines constantly at the door while Yuri makes breakfast. Yuri rushes through eating and watering the plants—Otabek left a very detailed list of notes and chores and to-dos, including scheduled plant-watering—so he can take her out for a run. The exercise cheers both of them up, but Sezim flops down dejectedly at the café when Otabek hasn’t magically materialized yet. Lina notices when she brings out their drinks.

“What’s wrong, girl?” she asks as she pets Sezim.

“Otabek left today. He has a competition in Canada.”

“Sezim is his dog?”

“Yes, of course. I told you she wasn’t mine.”

“But you didn’t say she was Otabek’s.” Lina looks at the hand she was just petting Sezim with.

Yuri has to laugh. “Can you please be normal?” he asks.

Lina is insulted. “I am the normal one here! You are the one used to being surrounded by celebrities and living legends. I have the normal life.”

“My life is normal for _me_ ,” Yuri says. Lina just rolls her eyes at him, which means Yuri must roll his eyes back, more dramatically.

As the day progresses, Yuri slowly realizes that, without his evenings with Otabek, the rest of his schedule sort of... loses shape. He doesn’t need to go back for lunch, because he doesn’t need to have time to go to the bookstore, because he doesn’t need to be home for dinner. It’s a very strange feeling after so many months of rhythm. He stays at the café until Lina gets off, around two, and then they take Sezim for another walk in the little park around the corner, the one Yuri went to his first day in Almaty.

Lina asks him about skating, and he finds himself telling her about the first time he met Otabek, in Barcelona during the Grand Prix. It’s only in the retelling that Yuri registers exactly how ridiculous of a story it is.

“Let me see if I have this right,” Lina says. “He rescued you from your crazed fans, took you to the top of a castle, and told you that he wanted to be your friend?” She raises eyebrows so high that they’re almost disappearing in her bangs.

“He didn’t tell me, he asked me. He said, ‘Are you going to become friends with me or not?’”

“Yes, that’s very different.” Lina is laughing silently at him when he looks. He elbows her and she scrambles to defend herself. “I’m sorry, it’s just so absurd! Did you say yes?”

“He made it hard to say no. And neither of us had any friends. It was a convincing argument.”

“Is that why you quit? You were lonely?”

“I didn’t quit!” Lina takes a few steps back and Yuri realizes he’s glaring ferociously at her. He looks away, out at the park.

“I’m sorry, that’s just what they all say,” Lina says hurriedly. “I’m sorry.”

“All who say?”

“Twitter, the blogs, news sites. You know.”

Yuri did know. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at the narrative. He wasn’t even coaching someone, like Viktor had. He was just.... doing nothing.

“I didn’t quit,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m taking some time off.”

“So you came to stay with your friend, to get away from everything. It makes sense. I’m sorry for presuming,” Lina says. 

“It’s not the most absurd presumption,” Yuri has to admit.

“Well, when you return, you’ll be better for it.”

“You don’t know that,” Yuri says. He calls for Sezim and she trots over immediately. 

“No, I don’t, but there’s no harm in thinking positively.”

Yuri shrugs as he snaps Sez’s leash back on. “Knock yourself out.”

-

On the opening day of Skate Canada, Yuri finds himself feeling horrifically anxious. More anxious than if he were actually competing. It makes no sense. “It’s probably because my body has nothing else to do,” he tells Sezim during one of his pacing fits. He has so much excess energy he cleans the entire apartment from top to bottom, rummaging through every cabinet to find supplies, and then abruptly tires himself out halfway through and has to leave the furniture in the living room pushed to one side after he can’t fathom mopping another inch.

He signs up for a burner Twitter account just so he can keep up with all the updates. The going narrative is very much Jean-Jacques Leroy versus Otabek Altin, with opinion split down the middle as to who will come out on top. Apparently JJ Leroy is going to attempt five quads in his free skate. Yuri hopes he smashes his face. 

Yuri’s own name pops up more than he expected. Every commentator has a hot take on “what the field would look like if Yuri Plisetsky were on the ice.” Yuri scans one before the anxiety kicks back in and he manages to go on a run before dinner. After dinner, he whirls through the house doing nothing in particular until it’s time for the men’s short program.

As he finds a live stream, he texts Otabek once, just the usual _davai!!!_ It’s only after he’s sent it that he remembers he told Otabek he wouldn’t be watching live. Regina is twelve hours behind Almaty, but the idea of going to bed and watching everything after it’s already happened is unfathomable to him right now. He pushes the couch away from the wall so he and Sezim can sit and watch on his laptop

Leo de la Iglesia is the only other one in the lineup that Yuri knows personally, but he’s heard of the rest of them. Otabek is going third, so Yuri is forced to listen to the commentators on the American stream (the only one he could find) blather on and on about the new talent and old blood and so on. _My god, does everyone who watches skating have to listen to idiots like these?_ he can’t help but think.

The first kid, a Canadian, wipes out on his first quad and never recovers. It’s his senior debut, and Yuri can barely watch him skate, it’s such a disaster. He has some of the sloppiest edge work Yuri has ever seen in a senior competition. The second skater is Israeli and he’s much better. The commentators make a big deal out of his age—27—and when he lands his first quad, the male commentator applauds. Yuri mutes the sound for the rest of the program.

The Israeli skate finishes, and while he’s waiting in the kiss and cry with his coaches, they cut to Otabek entering the ice. Yuri’s breath catches in his throat. His hair is short. Yanna must have finally put her foot down and made him cut it once they’d gotten to Canada. It’s his usual undercut, and Yuri can see he’s not used to it from the way he keeps going to push his hair back, only to find nothing there.

The Israeli skater scores a personal best, though it’s certainly not an overall great score, especially compared to Otabek and JJ’s base scores. He looks happy enough, and then the camera switches back to the ice and Otabek spreads his arms wide, cutting straight down the center of the rink.

 _That must be his introduction_. Yuri unmutes his computer and leans forward.

Yuri holds his breath for the entire program. It’s a great skate. Otabek triples one of his quad salchows, but otherwise it looks just as magnificent as when Yuri saw him do it a few weeks ago. The commentators keep yammering about his _determination_ , his _consistency_ , how he took a risk by switching coaches the previous year, but towards the end of the program, one of them say, “Really, I’m seeing a whole new Otabek Altin. His energy and emotion are fresher than ever before.” Yuri smiles, warmth blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re fucking right,” he tells his computer.

Of course, she ruins it right away by saying, “I wonder if we have Yuri Plisetsky to thank for that.” The other commentator laughs and Yuri almost slams his computer shut, but Otabek finishes and the rink fills with thunderous applause. Otabek allows himself a small smile as he skates for the edge. Yanna embraces him tightly and they head for the kiss and cry. Yuri digs a hand into Sezim’s fur while they wait. 

“It’s a personal best!” the commentator exclaims and Yuri throws his arms around Sez, squeezing her around the middle.

“He did it! He did it!” Yuri yells. He lets out a whoop of pure delight before Sezim wriggles out of his grasp and goes to lay down on the other side of the room. On the live stream, Otabek is hugging Yanna and waving to the crowd, a stuffed bear tucked under his arm.

Yuri clasps his hands together. “Yes. _Yes!_ ” God, he wishes he were there. How he wants to congratulate him in person! He scrambles for his phone and sends a text comprised entirely of heart, streamer, and balloon emojis to Otabek.

There are a couple more skaters in the group, with JJ last. Yuri scans Twitter and saves multiple gifs of Otabek’s program, including one where he nails the flip. Then JJ is taking to the ice, and Yuri devotes his full attention to the screen once more.

JJ’s composed a stupid fucking rock song with some band yet again. _The asshole really needs a better schtick, my god_. His first quad toe combination looks good enough, and his sal as well. Overall, it’s a fine program—no surprises, no major fuckups—until the very end, where he falls on his axel. Yuri throws his head back and cackles. He can’t suppress the complete pleasure he feels, watching that asshole bite it.

The final standings have Otabek in first, trailed by JJ and Leo. Otabek’s lead on JJ is enough that Yuri goes to bed buzzing with excitement and expectation.

-

He does better the next day, managing his run at the usual time with coffee at the shop after. Lina is after him to teach her to skate—as it turns out, she watched the competition last night as well with her sister.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Lina tells him as he’s preparing to head back to the apartment.

Yuri considers it for a moment, but he’d really rather be at home alone, just on the extreme off-chance things go south. Lina gives him her address anyway, “in case you change your mind,” she says.

He loses the normalcy once he leaves the café, though, and spends an hour scanning Instagram obsessively. Then, with no excuse other than he sees a selfie of Mila with some truly killer onyx pendant earrings, he goes to a piercing shop down the street and gets his ear pierced. The piercer is a giant man with very gentle hands, and he lets Yuri film the whole ordeal. He texts the video to Mila when he leaves, and she texts back _I can’t believe Otabek is 100% of your impulse control_. Yuri can’t believe it either but he just texts back a middle finger emoji and the diamond emoji.

He makes dinner, and after looks up some braiding videos on Youtube and practices doing a fishtail in the bathroom mirror. He does it again and again for several hours until it’s absolutely perfect, desperate to keep his hands busy. He takes a selfie, his new diamond earring featuring prominently, and throws it up on Instagram, just to complete the cycle.

Then, finally, it’s time, and Yuri sits on the couch with his laptop on his knees.

Leo lands his first quad sal in competition, which is cute, but otherwise Yuri barely pays attention to the early skaters. He’s bitten all his nails down to the quick by the time JJ takes the ice. The commentators remind everyone about the planned five quads and Yuri bits his index finger so hard it starts to bleed.

He pulls his hoodie sleeve down over it and watches JJ skate. He does his toe combination right out of the gate, followed by a fast step sequence that reminds Yuri of Yuuri’s footwork. He pulls off three more quads, and Yuri feels like all the air in the room is slowly being sucked out.

And then, on his final quad sal, JJ falls. Hard.

He gets up, though it takes him a few moments longer than it should, and finishes the program. Blood is streaming down his face. Yuri is torn between being totally, utterly thrilled and a little bit horrified. JJ is moving like he hurt himself, which isn’t good. One of the commentators thinks it’s his knee.

His score is well below what it could have been, and the happiness wins out. Otabek takes the ice with an all but guaranteed gold. “Here we go, Sez. Keep your eyes on him,” Yuri murmurs as the music starts.

Otabek skates like he has everything to lose, wringing out every possible point. It’s a gorgeous, emotive program. He nails every jump. He’s fucking unstoppable. Yuri feels electric, watching him on the ice. _That’s_ what it should look like. _That’s_ what it should be like.

He doesn’t beat his free skate PB, but it’s a close thing. He’s off by just a few fractions of a point. Yuri hugs Sezim again, vibrating with joy. He watches Otabek stand and wave at the crowd with Yanna just behind him.

After the medal ceremony (which Yuri watches with an overflowing amount of pride), Otabek is surrounded with reporters. They ask him about his plan for the season, about the quad flip, if he’s nervous about going up against last year’s silver medalist, Yuuri Katsuki, at the NHK. Otabek answers all of them smoothly, even though Yuri knows he isn’t at all used to the excessive media attention. Then, just as Otabek is turning away, an American journalist shouts out a final question.

“Mr. Altin! What is the nature of your relationship with Yuri Plisetsky? Are the two of you romantically involved?”

Yuri’s breath catches as he watches Otabek turn towards the reporter, his brow like thunder. “Yuri Plisetsky is my friend. My best friend,” he says, void of emotion, and then turns and leaves, Yanna trailing after him.

 _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god_ , Yuri thinks desperately. Thank goodness it happened after he’d already skated, even though it likely wouldn’t have affected Otabek anyway. But fuck was that reporter out of line. “Americans don’t know how to behave properly,” he says to Sezim. He grabs his phone and writes a quick text.

 **yuri-plisetsky** : CONGRATS!!! you were incredible

He means the interview in addition to the medal, but mostly the medal, definitely. Otabek texts back much later, while Yuri is asleep, so he doesn't see it until the morning. 

**otabek-altin** : thanks. can't wait to be home

-

 **v-nikiforov** : wow. that was some incredible skating  
**v-nikiforov** : please give Otabek our congratulations  
**yuri-plisetsky** : he killed it  
**yuri-plisetsky** : i’ll let him know

-

What with the flights, inevitable delays, and Yuri absolutely fucking up his sleep schedule to watch the competition live, it turns out that Yuri is asleep when Otabek finally arrives home.

During the day, Yuri finishes the cleaning frenzy, buoyed by Otabek’s impending return. The expectation burns in his chest like a talisman. He can’t wait to see him, to congratulate him, to tell him... Yuri pauses in scrubbing the kitchen sink, sponge in midair. He can’t finish the thought. Somewhere deep down, he knows he wants to tell Otabek something other than just congratulations, but his mind isn’t ready to put a name to it. _Fine_ , he thinks, scouring the counters with renewed vigor. _We’ll leave that for later, then_.

He really, truly tries his best to stay awake after dinner, but he’s so exhausted he feels like he’s dying. After seeing the delay on Otabek’s final flight, he caves and decides to take a nap, just for a bit. He sets an alarm for one hour on his phone, lays down with Sezim at his back, and falls asleep immediately.

He’s awoken some time later by a light tap on his door. He rolls over to see a silhouette in the doorway. Time blurs for a second and he has no idea what day it is or even what year, and then Otabek takes a step into the room and Yuri sees the outline of his face.

“You cut your hair,” he says, squinting through sleep-fogged eyes.

“Yanna made me,” Otabek says. His hands are in his pockets and he still has his shoes on. Yuri scrubs a hand across his face and sees Otabek’s suitcase standing outside the door, his jacket laid atop it.

Yuri looks back at Otabek and sees the softest expression he can remember ever seeing on his face. Whatever lingering sleepiness Yuri feels disappears at the sight of it. It makes him reach a certain hand out to Otabek and then, when Otabek moves forward and takes it, pull him down onto the bed and into a hug.

“You did so well,” Yuri whispers. “It was incredible. I’m so proud.”

Otabek’s arms go around Yuri’s waist, and he tucks his face into Yuri’s neck. He murmurs a quiet “Thank you,” into the skin there.

They just lay there for awhile, still entwined, Yuri under the blankets and Otabek on top, until Yuri jerks himself back awake and realizes he’d drifted off. “If you’re going to sleep here, take your shoes off,” he says into Otabek’s hair. He laces his hands together behind Otabek’s back to make his preference clear, and he thinks Otabek picks up on it, because he just toes his shoes off and kicks the quilt up to get his legs under the blankets.

-

Yuri wakes up to an empty bed the next morning, but Otabek is sitting at the kitchen table, wearing one of his giant sweaters and drinking tea, when Yuri stumbles out of the bedroom.

“Did you wash the floor?” Otabek asks without looking up from the newspaper spread out before him.

“Um. Yes, I did.” Yuri comes into the kitchen. There’s coffee made, so he pours himself a mug and sits. “Since when do you read the paper?”

“Since I’m in it.” Otabek spins the sports section around, which features a large color photo of Otabek with his gold around his neck, flanked by JJ and the Israeli skater (whose name is apparently Benyamin Dahan). _OTABEK ALTIN STUNS IN CANADA_ is the caption.

“Very nice,” Yuri says. “Are you going to frame it?”

Otabek shoots Yuri a look and pulls the paper back across the table. “Yanna probably already has.”

“Now that you have your whole country and most of the world at your feet, what’s your next move?” Yuri holds out an imaginary microphone. Otabek just looks at him, then gets up to open the fridge.

“Well, first up is breakfast,” he says as he pulls out the eggs. “Then tonight the boys are coming over and we’re going out. I’m DJing at Gas.”

Yuri slams a fist down on the kitchen table, rattling the cups and startling Sezim. “ _Yes!_ Finally! Oh my god. When? I have to do my hair. Thank god Mila sent me so much clothing...” He’s already plotting his outfit, mentally categorizing the possible combinations.

Otabek smiles as he heats oil in the pan. “I’m glad you’re so excited. You’ll get to meet Roman and Madiyar and Alen. Maybe Az at the club.”

Yuri goes to sit on the counter next to Otabek, coffee in hand. “I can’t believe it took this long for me to meet them, but I’ll forgive you because I finally get to see you DJ.”

“It’s tradition. We go out when I get back from my first event of the season. They buy the drinks if I don’t medal, and I buy the drinks if I do.”

“Good. I’m taking that as permission to buy a bottle of the most expensive vodka possible.”

Otabek squints up at him, pausing in his meal prep. “What exactly is the difference between expensive vodka and cheap vodka?”

“One costs more money. That’s it.” Yuri sneaks a bit of sausage out of one of the pans, and Otabek is too busy rolling his eyes to stop him. “You can trust me on this. I’m Russian.” 

He sneaks more sausage, and Otabek whacks him on the forearm with the spatula, so Yuri kicks him in the flank, and the fact that their breakfast survives the ensuing altercation is a goddamn miracle.

-

Otabek’s friends are all very tall and good-looking, with nice leather jackets and stern Kazakh brows. Yuri hears them come in while he’s still trying to decide on a shirt (he’d texted Mila a photo of the top contenders and Mila had texted back _ok exactly what level of slut are we going for_ and it’d turned into a whole thing) and he catches a glimpse of them through the crack in his door. He suppresses the flutter of nerves in his stomach and decides on the black velvet top, edged in lace and just short enough that it counts as a crop when he wears lower-rise jeans—which of course tonight he is, because Yuri Plisetsky is nothing if not completely committed to his club aesthetic.

He checks his braids one more time, gives them a final spritz of hairspray, and goes out to meet Otabek’s friends.

The three friends and Otabek are all sitting in the living room, drinking and laughing, but the room goes quiet when Yuri walks in. Yuri blushes a little, but, when he sees the obvious admiration on Otabek’s face, thinks _fuck it_ and grabs his jacket off the back of the couch and slides it on a little more slowly than necessary. He pulls his hair out from under the collar and lets it fan out across his shoulders. “Hi everyone,” he says, and smiles.

“Yuri Plisetsky,” says the one with a shaved head. “You’re much taller in person.” He stands and extends his hand. “I’m Roman.”

“Yuri,” Yuri says, even though it’s clearly not necessary. Another one of them, this one closer to Otabek’s height but much slimmer, stands up and shakes Yuri’s hand as well.

“I’m Madiyar,” he says. “Do we have to call you Yuri? I hear you go by both the Russian Punk and the Russian Fairy.” 

“As long as you also call Beka the Hero of Kazakhstan,” Yuri says, and they all laugh. Madiyar adopts a puzzled expression. 

“I didn’t know he went by anything else,” he says. “I hear he makes his lovers call him that in bed.”

“All right, you,” Otabek breaks in. His expression is half-amused, half-mortified.

“Would you like to put that rumor to rest once and for all?” Madiyar asks.

“Half of Twitter wants to know, by the looks of it,” Roman inserts.

Otabek covers his face with a hand. “I don’t know why I’m friends with any of you.”

Yuri gets himself a drink and joins the group. He ends up sitting on the floor by Otabek, and he realizes that he’s never seen anyone else in the apartment aside from himself and Otabek. It’s a lot more cramped, but the boys all turn out to be funny, easy conversationalists. The third one eventually introduces himself as Alen and it feels natural in minutes.

“We were getting details on Canada before you joined us,” Roman tells Yuri. “Specifically on if JJ Leroy is as obnoxious as he seems.”

“Oh, he is,” Yuri says.

“It’s one of Yuri’s favorite topics,” says Otabek. Yuri elbows him in the knee.

“Good jumper. Boring performer,” Alen says.

“Do you skate?” asks Yuri. Alen had said it with the air of someone who knows what he’s talking about.

“I coach novice skaters. So I teach kids, “ Alen says. “They’re very cute, even though they fall over about sixty percent of the time. It’s heart-warming.”

“Were you cute as a young skater, or did you always have the look of someone out for blood on the ice?” Madiyar asks Yuri.

Yuri feels rather than hears Otabek laughing behind him. “Both?” Yuri says.

“I believe the phrase I used was ‘the unforgettable eyes of a soldier,’” says Otabek.

“Ah, yes, at the infamous meeting of the rivals seven years ago that Yuri doesn’t remember,” Roman says. He looks at Yuri. “Correct?”

“Correct,” Yuri has to admit.

“In Yura’s defense,” Otabek says, “I was very forgettable then.”

They drink and make conversation for awhile longer and then Otabek looks at the time and suddenly he’s making everyone help carry his gear and rushing all of them out of the house. “Az will kill me if I’m there later than nine,” Otabek says as they all protest and drain their drinks. Everyone bundles into the taxi, still chattering, and in moments they’re pulling up in front of the club.

“Everyone have cash for the cover?” Otabek calls out as he unloads his DJing gear from the cab, someone waiting with a cart to take it inside for him. There’s grumbling from everyone—Madiyar: “What use are you if you can’t get them to waive our cover?”—but they all produce the money. Roman insists on paying for Yuri, and then they’re past the entrance, through a dark corridor, and in the club proper.

Yuri relaxes into the pulse of the music right away. The place is huge, one of the largest clubs he’s ever seen, and even though it’s early by most standards, it’s full of people. He follows the boys through the crowd to a reserved table in the cordoned off area. There’s already a bottle of champagne chilling on the table, five glasses in a circle around it.

“What the fuck?” Yuri says to Otabek as they sit down. Roman immediately gets to work opening the champagne, even though a bartender comes over to do it for them and ends up hovering nearby awkwardly as Roman wrestles with the cork.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Otabek says to Yuri, “but I’m just a little bit of a big deal.” He’s grinning, hugely, and Yuri laughs as he takes a glass of champagne from Roman.

“If you pull off the season you’re capable of, you’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?” Yuri says in his ear.

“Let’s find out.”

“All right!” Roman says loudly. “It’s time for a toast! To the Hero of Kazakhstan, our brother, our inspiration, the Kazakh man with the Uzbek name who carries our country’s pride on his deceptively strong shoulders, we drink to your health and happiness!”

They all cheer and clink glasses and drink. The champagne goes right to Yuri’s head, the bubbles fizzing down his throat and up his nose. He reclines and lets the conversation wash over him. They have that rhythm of people who have been friends awhile, ribbing each other with the fluidity that comes with a comfortable relationship. It makes Yuri miss St. Petersburg, but in a good way, rather than the sharp ache he’s felt at times over the last few months. He’s starting to think of it as something that he still _has_ , present tense, as opposed to _had_ , past tense.

Somewhere around the second bottle of champagne, the boys start getting on Madiyar about the girl he’s texting. Roman tells Yuri about the last girl he dated, who, according to the boys, was way too good for Madiyar.

“I mean, she was a doctor, for fuck’s sake! Why on earth did she see in you?” Roman says as he refills everyone’s glasses.

“She saw a good-looking boy with a rich family, and it wasn’t until she was in too deep that she realized he doesn’t get the money until he graduates from college, and that he dropped out two years ago,” says Otabek. They’re all laughing, even Madiyar, and Yuri has to smile.

“You got all the work ethic, Beka. We can’t all be industrious, good-looking _and_ self-sufficient.” Madiyar leans back, lacing his hands behind his head. “I’m riding on the looks.”

“They’ll fail you sooner than you think,” Alen puts in. Madiyar shoves him.

“We’re dancing!” he exclaims, standing. “Enough of this. Come on, Yuri, these idiots are boring.”

Yuri allows Madiyar to pull him up. He looks at Otabek who shakes his head.

“I’m on stage soon. I have to get set up.”

“We’ll see you out there, then,” says Yuri. “Right in the front row.” He winks, and Otabek’s smile in return warms him all the way out to the dancefloor.

Madiyar turns out to be a great dancer, the perfect combination of actually good and not at all serious. It makes dancing with him tremendously fun. He makes it his mission to make Yuri laugh as much as possible, even when Alen hits him on the shoulder and yells, “You’re embarrassing us!” but Yuri shakes his head.

“It’s fine!” Yuri calls out and Madiyar gives him a cheesy thumbs-up.

There’s a lull as the song changes, the opening DJ making way for Otabek, and Madiyar pulls him in. “I can’t decide between Russian Punk and Russian Fairy,” Madiyar yells in his ear. “The shirt is giving me Fairy, but the jacket is all Punk.”

“I can fix that,” Yuri yells back. He slips his jacket off and slings it over one shoulder, tossing his head so his hair cascades over the velvet top. He’s glad he only braided it back out of his face; there’s nothing like dancing cloaked by your own hair.

Madiyar shakes his head appreciatively. “I’d tell you you’re really beautiful, but I’m sure you know that.” His tone indicates it’s a genuine compliment, and Yuri’s been flattered on enough dancefloors to know the difference. He bestows a serene smile on Madiyar, who grins back and gives him another goofy thumbs-up.

Alen and Roman shoulder their way over to them. “We need to get to the front, he’s about to start!” Roman yells, and they follow him through the crowd. They reach the barrier at the front just as the room goes dark. A voice booms out, “And now, a special treat for all of you here tonight—put your hands together for _DJ Altin_!” and the crowd screams, surprising Yuri. 

“They know him?” he yells to Roman, who nods.

“He’s everyone’s favorite!” Roman yells back.

Yuri shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have doubted him.”

Roman slings an arm around him. “We’ve all made that mistake,” he says. “The trick is to never do it again.”

The lights flare, throwing Otabek into silhouette, and the screams rise in pitch and decibel as he raises a single hand in the air. The audience mirrors him, all throwing their hands up. A heavy bass line thuds out of the speakers, followed quickly by a beat, and then the music crashes down around them and everyone is dancing all at once.

Yuri is carried along with it, Roman’s arm still around his shoulders, but his eyes are only for Otabek. Otabek doesn’t look up from his setup, face stoic, headphones half-on half-off his head. Yuri doesn’t know the song but the whole club is singing along. Madiyar yells the chorus in Yuri’s ear and before long he’s caught it and joins in. He looks back on Otabek and sees a tiny smile curls his mouth up at the edges.

Yuri loses himself in the music and the movement. Otabek seems to have a particular taste for ‘80s techno classics, layering them with funk and soul lines that breath new life into each beat and measure. The crowd is with him for every note, recognizing more than half of the songs. Alen brings everyone shots at some point and they cheers Otabek even though he doesn’t look at them. Roman laughs and downs his shot.

“Eternally the most focused partier,” he says to Yuri. “Trust him to do literally everything with his signature single-mindedness.”

“I’ve never known him to do anything halfway,” Yuri says.

For some reason, that makes Roman give him a look that Yuri can only interpret as dubious, but Roman just says, “You’ve got that right,” and goes back to dancing.

The crowd boos when the lights change and the house music comes back on, signaling the end of Otabek’s set. Yuri looks at his phone for the first time all night and is shocked to see it’s after midnight. Roman catches his elbow and jerks his head towards the bar.

“Water break,” he calls.

The bar is three deep and Yuri leans against the wall, pulling his hair up off his neck. The club is sweltering, and when Roman brings him a bottle of water he takes it and presses it directly to his neck.

“Beka will be out in a second, he said he’s stowing his gear,” Roman tells him. Alen and Madiyar join them a moment later.

“Lads,” Madiyar says, “give my congratulations to our man, but I have something to attend to.”

“His girl is coming,” translates Alen. Roman rolls his eyes.

“You’re lucky Beka is very understanding,” he says.

Madiyar says, “I’m counting on it.” He kisses all of them on the cheek, even Yuri, and gives them a little bow before heading off. Roman barely has time to grumble about his shameful priorities before Yuri looks over his shoulder and suddenly Otabek is there.

“There’s the man of the hour!” Roman calls and Yuri doesn’t think, he just throws himself at Otabek, hugging him around the middle. Otabek hugs him back right away.

“You were _amazing_ ,” Yuri says in his ear. Otabek squeezes him.

“So were you,” he murmurs. Yuri pulls back.

“You didn’t look at me once!”

“I could see you, though.” Otabek touches one of his braids very lightly, barely a brush, but Yuri feels it in his whole body.

“Madiyar sends his regrets but he had something _very_ important to look after,” comes Roman’s voice. Otabek looks over at him.

“You mean the girl actually showed up? Did you see her?”

“He makes a good point,” Alen says. “None of us have seen her in the flesh.”

The room darkens once again, music starting back up, and the people around them immediately flow back towards the dancefloor.

Yuri looks back at Otabek. “Shall we?” Otabek says. Yuri nods, and Otabek takes his hand and pulls him out onto the floor.

Yuri can’t really tell what kind of a dancer Otabek is, because they’re so close he can’t see much else than his eyes, a glimpse of his lips, his cheekbone. Otabek places on hand on Yuri’s waist, his thumb catching the lace edge of Yuri’s top, his palm resting on Yuri’s bare skin. Yuri closes his eyes and lets the touch ground him, the bass thumping in his chest and through his whole body. He falls into that same sensation from when they were in the meadow, trekking across those green hills, like they’re the only two people in the world, with no one else for miles and miles.

It’s so oppressively hot that the feeling can’t last and Yuri has to pull back and wipe his face with the back of his hand. He sweeps all his hair over one shoulder and wrinkles his nose at Otabek ruefully.

“Fresh air?” Otabek asks him, and Yuri nods.

There’s a convenient little patio near the VIP area, and Yuri snags his jacket as they sweep past. The air outside is shockingly, bitingly cold, but Otabek’s hand is still warm and secure at the base of Yuri’s spine. He’s loathe to put on his jacket, since it means displacing it, but he’s shivering in seconds and can’t delay.

“Your friends are wonderful,” Yuri says, rubbing his hands together. Otabek grimaces.

“How many embarrassing stories did they tell you?”

“None, shockingly. I’ll go ask.” He pretends as if he’s heading back inside but Otabek grabs his arm.

“Don’t you dare,” Otabek says and Yuri laughs.

“I’m joking, you moron,” he says, and Otabek laughs too, the full laugh that crinkles his eyes and makes them sparkle. Yuri loves seeing it but tonight it feels like it might set him on fire and he has to look away. Instead, he leans against the wall and peers up at the sky. It’s a clear night, the half moon right above them. He wonders what constellations they’d be able to see away from the city.

“Yura?”

Otabek’s voice is soft and a little tentative and Yuri focuses back on him. His brow is slightly furrowed and his lips are red from the cold.

“I like the way your mouth looks when you say my name,” Yuri says, and immediately after he says it he realizes how tipsy he is, not so much from the champagne and vodka but on Otabek’s nearness and the ghost of his touch, the little brushes that have left Yuri’s nerves ablaze the whole night.

“Do you,” Otabek says, a grin creeping over his mouth and not stopping until it covers his entire face. It’s like watching the sun steal over a valley at midday and this time Yuri couldn’t look away if the world was ending. “Yuuuriiiii.” Otabek lets the vowels linger on his tongue. 

Yuri wrinkles his nose. “Well,” he says, “not like that.” 

“Yura,” Otabek murmurs. His face is very close to Yuri’s now. Yuri realizes they’re both breathing hard. 

“Yes, like that,” he whispers, and Otabek kisses him.

Yuri’s hands are in his hair immediately—Yuri thinks he might have been reaching for him before Otabek even leaned forward but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all now—and Otabek slips one hand up his back to cradle his head. The sweetness of the gesture contrasts with the wickedness of Otabek’s mouth, licking hotly into Yuri’s with an intensity that sets Yuri’s entire being aflame. He’s never been kissed like this—never wanted to be kissed like this, never knew that it was a thing that was possible to desire so entirely. He kisses Otabek back in a way that he hopes communicates this ( _I want this, I want you, I want it so badly_ ) and he thinks he might succeed when Otabek moans raggedly into his mouth. 

Yuri uses the grip on his hair to drag his head back just a little, to get the angle just how he wants it, and Otabek steps forward, pinning Yuri against the wall, one hand still cupping Yuri’s neck and the other on his hip. The solidity of him makes Yuri light-headed, though that could also be because he can’t stop kissing Otabek long enough to actually breathe. In Yuri’s defense, Otabek kisses him like he’s been waiting to do so his whole life, desire clear in the way he grips Yuri’s cheek and rubs a gentle thumb across his chin, and Yuri shivers beneath him. _Oh my god_ , he thinks mindlessly, _oh my god, oh my god_.

“Beka!”

They pull apart just as Roman pops out onto the patio. Otabek takes a step back and Yuri wipes shaking hands on his jeans. Roman doesn’t seem to notice a thing.

“Az is looking for you.” Roman jerks his head inside. “He wants to talk to you.”

“I—all right, okay,” Otabek says. Yuri thrills at how rough his voice sounds. He looks at Yuri and his lips are so, so red. “I’ll be right back.”

He slips past Roman and back into the club. Roman eyes Yuri, a crease emerging between his eyebrows, and he steps out onto the patio, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He offers them to Yuri, who shakes his head. Roman takes his time tapping one out and lighting it, inhaling and exhaling the first drag into the night air. Yuri zips his jacket, sticks his hands in his pockets, and waits.

“You know Beka doesn’t fuck around so I’m not going to bother with that part of the talk,” Roman says finally. “But also, Beka doesn’t fuck around.” He eyes Yuri and takes another drag of his cigarette. “Though I get the sense that you don’t either.”

“I don’t,” Yuri says honestly. “I don’t think I know how.”

“Well, that’s settled then,” Roman says, and he finishes his cigarette in silence while Yuri looks at the stars. Before long, Otabek comes back out and tells them Alen’s had too much to drink and should go home, and they’re all tumbling out of the club and calling cabs. Alen insists he’s fine—”How many fingers am I holding up?” Roman asks, and Alen snaps, “At least twenty!”—but Otabek and Roman manage to heave him into the taxi and Roman decides to ride with him, so he actually ends up home, and then it’s just Otabek and Yuri getting into the second cab. 

Yuri rubs his hands together against the cold as Otabek leans forward to give the driver the address. The streetlights smear together outside his window and he feels the evening settling into his bones: the music, the alcohol, the dancing—and the kissing.

He looks over at Otabek, but he’s turned away from Yuri, looking out his own window. Yuri’s stomach flips. _Oh god, if he regrets it—if he thinks it’s a mistake..._ He stares at Otabek’s back and wills him to say something, anything. Yuri feels like he might fly to pieces if the silence lasts, but then what Roman said echoes through his head. _Beka doesn’t fuck around. But then I get the sense you don’t either._ Yuri clings to the words like the only prayer he’s ever believed in.

He follows Otabek up the stairs and waits behind him while he unlocks the front door. He almost reaches out to touch him multiple times, but something about the line of Otabek’s shoulders makes him cross his arms instead. He’s starting to get that gritty feeling behind his eyes, that nasty combination of exhaustion and dehydration, and he’s still shivering from the cold.

“Water?” Otabek says as they enter the apartment, doing that weird thing where he reads Yuri’s mood without even looking at him.

“Please,” Yuri says, and he sits on the couch and pulls one of the blankets around himself while Otabek fills the glasses. He finds himself pleating it nervously between his fingers and smooths it out hurriedly when Otabek brings him the cup.

“Thank you,” Yuri says. Otabek sits across from him and they drink their water in silence for several agonizing minutes.

“We need to talk,” Otabek says. He sets his glass aside on the table and looks at Yuri.

Yuri keeps his eyes on his hands. He can feel himself flushing. “About?”

“What just happened at the club.”

“What about it?”

“Well, I... When we... I think it’s clear that...” Otabek keeps trailing off and when Yuri looks at him, he’s delighted to find him blushing.

“You’re embarrassed, too!” he exclaims, giddy with relief.

Otabek scowls. “Of course I am! Do you think I enjoy doing this?”

“Why are we talking about this when we could be kissing?” Yuri says, and is rewarded by a deepening blush on Otabek’s cheeks.

“Because it’s important to figure this out!” Otabek smooths his hair back out of habit.

“What is there to even figure out?!” Yuri is moving quickly from amusement into irritation.

“It was only a short time ago that... everything happened in St. Petersburg and I don’t want—to take advantage of you in your vulnerability—”

Suddenly, Yuri realizes what Otabek is trying to say, what he can’t say, to save face for both himself and Yuri. Yuri cuts in immediately and lays it out as plainly as he can, determined to avoid any more of this ridiculousness, looking Otabek right in the eye. “You’re not taking advantage of me. I want you. I want only you. I’m not thinking of anyone but you when you touch me. I wish—” he has to stop and breath “—I wish that you were touching me _right now_ instead of wasting time worrying about some bullshit that’s only in your head.” He squeezes his glass tightly to keep his hands from shaking but he refuses to look away.

Otabek is quiet for a moment, staring at Yuri with his jaw hanging open, then he seems to come back to himself and closes it abruptly. “Well,” he says, and stops. He looks at Yuri’s mouth.

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake_ ,” Yuri snaps, and bangs his glass down, crosses the room to kneel before Otabek, and pulls him down by the collar to kiss him.

Otabek sinks both his hands into Yuri’s hair, twisting his fingers in the fall of it, and kisses him back with a ferocity that approaches desperation. Yuri gasps into it again, dizziness sweeping through him like a fire, and Otabek pulls him in with both arms. Yuri has to wind his own around Otabek’s neck to keep from falling. He wants to be so close to him, to eliminate every last fraction of space between them, to be swallowed up by the protective circle of Otabek’s arms and never, ever lose his grip. He’s shivering so hard.

Otabek pulls back just a bit. “You’re shaking,” he whispers, his hand coming up to cup Yuri’s cheek. Yuri nods, suddenly unable to speak, and buries his face in Otabek’s neck as the emotion and intensity and exhaustion crash over him in waves. Otabek holds him through it and Yuri clings to him, Otabek solid and sure around him.

They stay like that for awhile, just breathing, until Otabek says, “This can’t be pleasant for your knees,” and pushes at his shoulder until Yuri moves back.

“Don’t worry about my knees,” Yuri manages to say, but Otabek just tsks at him and pulls him up and into his bedroom. There, he strips them both down to their boxers and draws Yuri down into bed with him. Yuri protests feebly a few more times, but he can’t deny that it’s so nice to just lay down and let Otabek cover him with the blanket and, when Otabek turns out the light, bury his face in Otabek’s warm chest. Otabek’s hand rubs up and down his back and Yuri finally lets himself stop thinking and drifts off to sleep.

-

The next morning, Yuri wakes up slowly. The sun is creeping across the bed, warming him under the heavy duvet. He rubs his nose against the soft pillowcase.

Images are beginning to trickle through to his sleep-soaked brain ( _the blue lights of a club in brown hair, a hand on the back of Yuri’s neck, the whoosh of cold wind_ ), but Yuri ignores them in favor of luxuriating in the feeling of the silky sheets. _Just in case it was a dream. Let it last just a little bit longer._ He turns to let the sunlight wash over his closed eyelids.

When he finally opens his eyes, they land on Otabek. He’s reading Yuri's Tchaikovsky biography in the chair by the window with Sezim at his feet. The window is slightly ajar and a light breeze drifts through the room, lifting Otabek’s fringe off his forehead. Otabek pins the page he’s reading with one finger so the wind doesn’t flip it.

For a moment, Yuri can’t breathe. _It’s real. My god, it’s real._

Otabek senses Yuri’s gaze and looks over at him. A smile starts deep in the corners of his mouth before blooming across his face. For a moment, he and Yuri just grin at one another. Then Otabek puts his book aside and comes to kneel next to the bed.

“Morning,” he says.

Yuri kisses him. He knows his mouth probably tastes horrible, there’s gunk in his eyes, but the need to touch Otabek is overwhelming. Otabek cups his jaw and kisses him back, so slowly and tenderly Yuri trembles again.

Yuri can’t stop himself from chasing after Otabek’s lips a bit when he pulls away. Otabek huffs out a laugh and kisses him one more time, just a ghosting of touch over his mouth. Then he moves back.

Yuri throws himself back onto the pillow. “Why are you _stopping?_ ”

Otabek seats himself on the edge of the bed. “Because I want to talk. And I can’t think when you touch me.”

Yuri surges up onto his elbows. “Really?” He reaches out a hand but Otabek catches it.

“I’m serious, Yura! Stop.” He seizes Yuri’s other hand, too.

“You’re always serious,” Yuri taunts. He pulls hard and Otabek, still clutching Yuri’s hands, falls forward on top of him with a surprised “oof”. Yuri laughs. “There we go,” he murmurs against Otabek’s lips.

Otabek lets him kiss him, lets Yuri pull him in with a hand on the back of his neck. Yuri can’t help but moan into it a little bit and Otabek takes that as a chance to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue against Yuri’s. It's slick and sinful and oh-so-sweet. 

Yuri fists his other hand in Otabek’s t-shirt and hauls him in even closer. Otabek adjusts his position so he has a knee on either side of Yuri’s hips, straddling him. His hands bracket Yuri’s head on the pillow. Yuri has a sudden flash of Otabek fucking him like this, pushing him down into the mattress, and he loses his breath entirely for a moment. He wants it so much he feels dizzy. 

Otabek chooses that moment to pull back again. Yuri lets out a wail of sheer frustration.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Otabek says.

“ _Yes_ , we _can_ ,” Yuri says, “I don’t know where you got such a stupid fucking idea.”

“I can’t stay in the day after I’ve gone to the club. I go stir-crazy. This—" Otabek laces his hand in Yuri’s “—is the closest I’ve come to reconsidering that rule. But I know I’ll regret it.”

“Because I will _make_ you regret it.”

“I cannot wait for you to deliver on that promise.” Otabek pushes himself off the bed. “But not now. What do you think about a hike?”

“I’m not thinking about anything else until I’ve had coffee.”

“Get up and make some, then.”

“ _Fine_.” Yuri throws himself out of bed and shoves on his sweatpants. He goes into the kitchen.

“Where are the beans?” he yells.

“Above the stove.”

Yuri finds the beans and the grinder and goes to work. Otabek comes in shortly, dressed in his practical outdoor clothing.

“You’ve been here almost three months and in all that time you never knew where the beans—which you buy—were?”

“Well, usually you make it or I go out,” Yuri says defensively. The coffee pot starts to percolate cheerily.

“What did you do while I was in Canada?”

“Suffer,” Yuri says gravely, and Otabek laughs.

When they finally leave the house, Otabek takes them only a short distance, to just outside the city. It’s a leisurely hike compared to some of their excursions, in the same area as that drive on Yuri’s first night. The October air is pleasantly brisk, with just a hint of snow. The rich scent of the earth, damp and fertile, envelops them. Yuri finds himself wondering what Christmas in Almaty is like.

They don’t talk but it’s such a comfortable, lived-in silence that Yuri doesn’t even think about it. Otabek touches him here and there, when he has an excuse—helping Yuri over a tree stump, catching his elbow when he slips on fallen leaves—and Yuri does think about that. Even the smallest contact intoxicates him. When the path levels out, Yuri stops to take in the view, flopping down on an obliging log, and Otabek sits beside him. Very carefully, he overlaps his hand with Yuri’s on the wood between them. There’s the barest question in the brush of his fingertips. Yuri turns his palm up and twines their hands together.

They sit like that, holding hands in the hush of the wilderness, looking out over the city, until the sun starts to fall.

Yuri takes a long shower when they get home. Yuri watches the water wind around and around the drain. He soaps his hair and watches the suds twirl as well.

He takes his time toweling off, combing his hair with his fingers. He dresses in a white t-shirt he finds in the clean clothes basket and pulls on his favorite jeans.

Otabek is in the kitchen, knife in hand, prepping for dinner, still in his hiking clothes. Several containers, all filled with different ingredients, are arranged on the counter. Yuri hesitates in the doorway for a moment, then steps forward to wrap his arms around Otabek from behind.

“That was lovely. Thank you,” he murmurs into Otabek’s back. He drops a kiss in the hollow between his shoulder blade and spine, and nestles his face in after it.

Otabek stills. There’s a faint _clink_ as he drops the knife onto the cutting board. Then suddenly he’s turning and pushing Yuri up against the opposite countertop, and kissing him, hard, as if he might die if he doesn't touch Yuri. 

_Yes_ , Yuri thinks, _finally!!_ He sinks his hands into Otabek’s hair and kisses him back. It’s harder than their leisurely make-out that morning, less desperate than the night before, and still just as incredible. Yuri drags his teeth over Otabek’s lower lip.

“ _Yura_ ,” gasps Otabek, and kisses along the underside of Yuri’s jaw. He sucks a lovebite onto the tender skin by his ear. Yuri would be embarrassed at the sounds coming out of his mouth if it didn’t feel _so goddamn good._

Yuri leverages himself up onto the counter. Now he can tip Otabek’s head back and get that angle just how he wants it. Otabek’s hands are clutching Yuri’s thighs, contracting involuntarily when Yuri strokes down his neck with one thumb. Otabek’s mouth is wicked, relentless, learning every corner of Yuri’s mouth, leaving him shaking and breathless, but his hands don’t move beyond the safety of Yuri’s thighs.

“Beka,” Yuri says, “ _touch me._ ”

Otabek draws back a bit. His hands slide up Yuri’s legs to his hips.

“For _real_ , you idiot!” Yuri huffs, and pulls his own shirt off.

They’ve seen each other in various states of undress countless times but Otabek stares at him as if he’s never seen Yuri before. The look on his face approaches reverence. He kisses Yuri’s shoulder. His hands slip up Yuri’s back, stroking in tiny circles.

“That’s more like it,” Yuri mutters in satisfaction. He tips his head back as Otabek drops kisses like a necklace over his collarbones. He spreads his hands over Yuri’s ribs, trailing white heat that makes Yuri’s every nerve stand on end. 

“You are so, so beautiful.” 

Otabek says it against Yuri’s skin like a benediction. Yuri shivers. Otabek runs light fingers up his stomach to his nipples and the shiver turns into a full-body convulsion.

“Oh, god,” Yuri groans. Otabek’s clever thumbs circle each nipple and then tweak them once, very gently, and then again, harder. 

“Fuck,” Yuri gasps, then, “kiss me.” 

Otabek obliges, kissing Yuri roughly. Yuri pulls him in—and is furious when his hands meet cloth instead of skin.

“Why are you dressed?! Stupid clothes. Get these off.” Yuri yanks at the buttons. Otabek pushes his fingers away and undoes them in a moment. He throws the shirt to the side, undershirt following quickly, and he and Yuri crash together once more. 

His bare chest against Yuri’s is a whole new level of friction that Yuri has to discover. He arches up against Otabek and wraps both his arms and legs around him. He sinks his nails into Otabek’s back and kisses him. 

It’s less of a kiss and more of just a slick collapse into one another. Otabek moans, open-mouthed, and clings to Yuri. He grinds into Yuri’s splayed thighs and then suddenly goes still.

“Sorry,” Otabek says. “Is it—do you—"

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake!” Yuri yells. “You’re the most noble man in the world!” 

Otabek laughs a bit and drops his head down onto Yuri’s shoulder. “Sorry. I just don’t want to fuck this up.”

“You couldn’t.” Yuri presses a hand to the base of Otabek’s spine, right above the swell of his ass. With his other hand, he tugs open Otabek’s pants.

Otabek inhales sharply, his face still buried in Yuri’s neck. “Yura...”

“What _now_?!” The man is impossible. If Yuri didn’t know better (and thank god he does), he would think Otabek didn’t want him.

“Not in the kitchen, that’s all! We have a perfectly serviceable bed in the other room.”

“Ugh, you have to go and be all sensible right in the middle of us having sex, don’t you?” Yuri says, as he allows Otabek to pull him into the bedroom.

“Just because we’re having sex doesn’t mean I turn into a different person,” Otabek says. He strips off his pants and motions for Yuri to do the same.

“Really? I thought that was how it worked!” 

Yuri remembers he’s not wearing underwear just as he pulls off his jeans. He flushes and watches as it spreads all the way down to his dick, already leaking pre-come.

“Fuck,” Otabek says. He’s naked, too, when Yuri glances at him. He has a really, really nice-looking dick. Granted, Yuri’s body of evidence is slim (to none), but he supposes he would find any dick nice if it was attached to Otabek.

“Can I?” Otabek gestures vaguely.

“Um. Yes?” Yuri says. They step closer to one another and suddenly Otabek’s tentative hands are on Yuri’s cock. He strokes it gingerly for a few moments, until Yuri lays a hand on top of his and shows him the speed and the angle he likes. Otabek’s eyebrows knit as he concentrates. 

“Like this?” Otabek asks, and thumbs over the head. Yuri grabs his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Otabek says, deeply amused. Yuri wraps both arms around his shoulders and leans his forehead against Otabek’s. They both watch as Yuri’s dick disappears and reappears in the circle of Otabek’s hand. God. It’s definitely the hottest thing Yuri has ever seen.

“Faster,” he whispers and Otabek speeds up, jerking him in earnest.

Yuri’s thighs are trembling. He goes from embracing Otabek to clinging on to him for support. His breath is coming in panting gasps and shivery moans. He feels Otabek in every inch of his body. 

Otabek winds his free arm around his waist. His grip is strong and so certain. “Come on, Yurachka,” he whispers, and Yuri comes. 

His knees must give way, because when he recovers, both of them are sitting on the bed. Otabek kisses his bicep and then his cheek.

Yuri lets himself hide in the curve of Otabek’s arm while his breathing evens out and the trembling dissipates. Otabek strokes the back of his neck with one hand.

“Christ,” Yuri says when he can speak. 

He feels Otabek smile. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Yuri says decisively.

“Good.”

Otabek doesn’t make any further move, but his hard cock is laying right there against his stomach. Clearly, his stamina extends to off the ice as well. Yuri runs an experimental hand over it.

In a split second, every muscle in Otabek’s body goes from relaxed to taut. Yuri fists his dick and looks up at him.

“What do you want?” he asks.

Otabek just shakes his head, eyes screwed tightly shut. “Anything. You.”

Yuri considers this, and then pushes Otabek up and to the top of the bed, until he’s leaning against the headboard with Yuri kneeling between his legs. He strokes over his thighs and leans forward to kiss him.

In the kiss, Yuri can feel the enormity of Otabek’s self-control. He’s just barely shaking, but it’s enough to signal how wound up he is. He kisses Yuri with his full attention though, one trembling hand resting on Yuri’s arm, as if there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing. Yuri wants to take him apart, piece by piece, and then put him back together. God, how he wants it.

Yuri moves back and goes down onto his stomach. He wiggles forward and tugs at Otabek’s hips to get the angle right. When he’s satisfied, he wraps a hand around the base of Otabek’s dick. He hesitates for the barest moment, then takes him in his mouth.

Otabek’s hips buck up as Otabek lets out a strangled cry. Yuri chokes and backs off immediately. His eyes are watering.

“Holy shit, Yura,” Otabek gasps. He reaches for Yuri. “A little warning?”

“What did you think I was doing?” Yuri says crossly. Het lets Otabek kiss him but pulls away before too long, determined.

“This is happening,” he tells Otabek. He pinches Otabek’s thigh. “Behave.”

Otabek nods. “Yes, sir.”

“You can help by holding my hair,” Yuri says primly. Otabek obeys as Yuri moves down and takes his dick in his mouth once more.

Otabek’s hips jump again, but barely. Yuri places his forearm across his pelvis, shamelessly using his newly-won height to his advantage, and sucks, hard. The hand in Yuri’s hair tightens.

“Oh my god,” Otabek says, “Oh my _god_.”

The feedback is gratifying—Yuri’s never done this before, but he knows he can learn to do just about anything well if the resulting reward is worthwhile. And making Otabek utter those noises is just about the best reward he can imagine right now. It's the most intoxicating feeling of power Yuri has ever experienced. 

He bobs up and down experimentally, focuses on the head, licks down the shaft, and notes Otabek’s reaction to each. Otabek leans his head back against the wall and moans long and low and loud when Yuri swirls his tounge around the tip. He sees how much he can take and is pleased to discover it’s a lot more when he’s not being surprised with an unexpected dick down his throat.

Otabek’s quads are so tense under Yuri’s arms. His free hand digs into the duvet, clutching at something to anchor himself with. 

Yuri snags the free hand and places it in his hair. He pulls off briefly, slowly stroking Otabek with a fist. “You’ve done well,” Yuri tells Otabek. “You can be a little rougher now.”

“Fuck, Yura. Fuck, I’m afraid of hurting you,” Otabek gasps.

“Don’t worry. You’ll know if I’m not okay.”

At first, Otabek just winds his hands in Yuri’s hair, rubbing the damp strands between his fingers. Yuri hums a bit and sucks harder, and Otabek thrusts up just a little. Yuri digs his nails into the skin of his ass encouragingly and Otabek thrusts up again. Yuri groans into it, grinding his own hips down into the bed. Otabek curls forward, moaning at the sight, cradling Yuri’s head with both hands, and it doesn’t last much longer after that.

Yuri goes to rinse his mouth and comes back to lay down next to Otabek, who sits up immediately when he notices Yuri’s hard again.

“I want to—" Otabek starts but Yuri shushes him.

“Later. Right now, I just want...” He can’t finish. He wants to lay here, in bed, with Otabek holding him. But he can’t just say that.

 _Oh for fuck’s sake, Yuri,_ he thinks, _you just had the man’s dick down your throat. Can’t you?_

He takes in a breath, and says quietly, almost in an undertone, “I just want to lay here. And have you hold me.”

Otabek complies instantly, scooting down on the bed so he can cradle Yuri to his chest. Once they’re settled, Yuri reaches down to jerk himself off. With Otabek kissing his neck and rubbing a palm over his stomach, he comes in moments. Afterwards, they both lay there, panting together. 

“I love you.” Otabek whispers the words into Yuri’s collarbone as if he's afraid Yuri will be affronted, will scream and throw things at the offense. It's a cut-glass confession, so beautiful and fragile Yuri wants to nestle it into his chest, next to his heart, and make sure no one—especially Yuri—gives Otabek cause to sound that uncertain ever again. 

“Well, that's a relief because I'm fucking crazy about you,” Yuri says so he doesn't cry. Instead, he turns his face into Otabek’s warmth and closes his eyes. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Otabek’s heart beating. His last conscious thought is that it sounds remarkably like his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains technically underage drinking, a scene where two characters discuss the idea of self-harm, and rough-ish sex.


	5. AFTER

**04\. AFTER**

* * *

After Otabek wins gold at Worlds, they take a whole month off.

Viktor insists they all go to Hasetsu for part of it, Yuri and Otabek and Yuuri and Viktor. Yuri agrees, mostly because he knows it’s time to put those demons to rest once and for all, but also because he just straight-up loves the onsen. And because Otabek says he owes him.

“I was there for almost a whole week after you ran away last time,” he says to Yuri, and Yuri doesn’t argue. Otabek likes to pretend he needs a reason to ask Yuri to do things, when in reality, if he told Yuri he wanted to go to the moon, Yuri would follow without question. (Well—maybe with a few questions.)

“It’s a little Worlds 2018 medalists’ trip,” Viktor says when Yuri calls him to tell him they’ll come. “We could probably get a sponsorship if we wanted. A tv deal, even, after that display the two of you put on up on the podium.”

“Otabek is gold, I’m silver, and Yuuri is bronze, but I don’t know what you are,” Yuri tells him. 

“Platinum?” Viktor suggests.

“Arm candy,” Yuri says, and Viktor laughs.

The Katsukis are thrilled to see them all. At first, they insist that all of them are guests and should be relaxing, but Otabek especially is very firm and polite and refuses to be waited on. Mari takes advantage immediately, asking for his help for everything from moving furniture to chopping wood. She’s taken to calling him ‘Yurio’s small Kazakh man,’ which Viktor finds hilarious.

“You’re like one of those dogs who doesn’t know he isn’t a puppy anymore,” Viktor explains to him later. “You’re still sitting in your owner’s lap and wanting to be carried even though you’re bigger than he is. You know, like in one of those Buzzfeed posts.”

“I am _nothing_ like a dog,” Yuri hisses, going bright red. “How dare you.”

They’re traveling over Yuri’s birthday, so they have a small party at the onsen after they settle in. Otabek and Yuuri build a huge fire out on the beach and they play cricket and do a two-legged race and construct a giant sandcastle. Otabek is very serious about the sandcastle having a decent foundation and Yuri is on board until Otabek pulls out a measuring tape. Then he rolls his eyes and goes to get another drink. Yuuri follows him, laughing.

“Where did he even get that?” Yuuri asks him.

“I have no idea. I’m assuming he just carries it around with him for whenever he needs to build a structurally sound sandcastle.”

They watch Otabek make Viktor hold one end of the tape as he marks out the dimensions in the damp sand. Otabek’s hair is growing out again and he pulls it back in a tiny half-ponytail.

“I’m so glad you’re doing well,” says Yuuri suddenly. “It’s wonderful to see.”

Yuri nods. “Thank you,” he says. He and Yuuri had had A Talk in December when Yuri went back for Russian Nationals, and they’d slowly been working their way back into the rhythm of friendship since. Sometimes it’s a little bit stilted, especially with how touchy-feely Viktor can be, but now when Yuri sees them together, he knows: he wasn’t in love with Yuuri. He had been in love with the idea of it, as he had explained to Yuuri through gritted teeth, had wanted what Viktor and Yuuri had, but projected it onto Yuuri. As embarrassing as it was to admit, it had been a relief to get it all out in the open, and it meant the whole ridiculousness of the summer could be chalked up to growing pains. And he’d gotten Otabek and a surprisingly grown-up friendship with Viktor out of it, so overall Yuri is starting to feel like it was maybe worth it.

The sandcastle is progressing nicely, then Sezim runs through the first layer of sand bricks as she chases a seagull and they have to start over.

“She’s never been to the beach before, has she?” Yuuri asks.

“No.”

“What about Ana?”

“She hates the sand in her paws. She’s sleeping back in her room,” Yuri says. Viktor is starting to dig for shells to use as decor. He runs back over to Otabek with his selection.

“He loves you, you know,” Yuuri says. He’s smiling when Yuri looks at him. “Otabek, I mean.”

“Of course he does,” Yuri scoffs. Yuri has doubted a lot of things, but he has never, ever doubted that.

“Yura!” comes Otabek’s voice. He’s looking around for Yuri and a faint crinkle appears on his forehead when he sees him with Yuuri. Sezim has run through the sandcastle again. Yuri jogs over to them.

“Can you control this beast?” Otabek asks him, indicating Sez with his head. She’s frolicking in the surf further up the beach now.

“It’s my birthday, I’m not controlling shit,” Yuri says, but he chases after her all the same and takes her up to the onsen courtyard. She’ll need a decent bath before Mari will let her back inside.

Night is falling and Viktor produces a truly enormous stash of fireworks and sparklers. Yuri almost scorches off his eyebrows trying to get the perfect selfie with one, until finally Otabek takes his phone and snaps the photo for him.

They eat dinner out on the beach, Hiroko carting down dish after dish of katsudon and gyoza and so many things Yuri doesn’t recognize but eats anyway. He lays on the sand with his head in Otabek’s lap and makes Otabek feed him the little dumplings. Otabek grumbles but does it anyway.

He’s a little quieter than normal, which Yuri notices only after Viktor does a lengthy toast and Otabek doesn’t return Yuri’s eyeroll. Yuri’s gotten much better at reading Otabek’s silences and he knows this isn’t one of the good ones. It’s a guessing game, though, for Yuri to know when to ride it out or when to pry it out of him. He’s still carding his fingers through Yuri’s hair, which is almost down to the middle of his back now, so Yuri lets it go for the time being.

Yuuri gives a toast after Viktor, standing in the spill of light from the dying bonfire. “To Yura, who never stands for anything less than the truth or settles for anything less than everyone’s best,” he says, and Otabek murmurs, “Hear, hear,” in an undertone as everyone cheers and drinks.

“Beka, you’re up,” Viktor says, clapping him on the shoulder. Otabek shifts Yuri off him so he can stand. Yuri leans back on his elbows and watches him raise his glass.

“I’m not a man of many words,” Otabek starts, and Viktor heckles him immediately, yelling, “Get on with it, already!” Yuri punches him in the knee, not too hard, but Viktor collapses into the sand with a melodramatic yelp.

“You’re being distracting,” Yuri tells him. “We all listened to you drone on without interrupting. Shut up.” Viktor mimes zipping his mouth shut and they all look back at Otabek, who’s smiling.

“I’m so lucky to have you, Yura,” Otabek says. “We all are. You only know how to give everything. I pray every day that you won’t tire of me.”

“Never,” Yuri says, and he springs to his feet because he has to kiss Otabek, even though everyone is there, including Minako-sensei, who never misses a party. They all whoop and cheer, and Viktor yells, “To Yura!” and they drink. Otabek kisses Yuri back, despite his endless insistence that he’s against public displays of affection, and hugs him tightly.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers in his ear.

Later, when they’re back in their room at the onsen, Otabek’s quiet again, and he has that set to his shoulders that means Yuri shouldn’t touch him. Yuri nearly chews a hole in his lip, waiting for him to say something, but they’re changing into their pajamas and getting into bed and still Otabek is silent.

Yuri scans Instagram while Otabek reads. He can’t even look at the pictures, just taps ‘like’ at random. He feels like he’s vibrating with anxiety. He puts his phone away when Otabek puts his book aside, but Otabek just lays down as if he’s going to sleep and Yuri’s anxiety swiftly transforms into impatience.

“Beka,” he snaps. “Come on, I know something’s wrong. Talk to me.”

He stares at the back of Otabek’s head for what feels like an eternity before Otabek finally rolls over.

“Am I a consolation prize?” Otabek asks quietly.

Yuri stares at him for a second, completely taken aback. “ _What?_ No, oh my god, why would you even _ask_ that—”

Otabek is nodding before Yuri even finishes speaking, “I know, I know, it’s foolish, but sometimes I see you with Yuuri and I wonder—”

“What? You wonder what? If I’m still in love with him? I’ve _told_ you, I never was. For fuck’s sake, out of all the ridiculous things to worry about.”

“I know, I know,” Otabek says again. He reaches for Yuri and Yuri falls into him immediately, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his eyes, still scolding him between each touch.

“Don’t—ever—think—anything—so stupid—again,” and Otabek laughs into it.

“I won’t, I promise,” he says, and grabs Yuri’s chin so he can kiss him properly. Yuri goes boneless, relaxing entirely, and before long Otabek pushes him back so he can climb on top and kiss Yuri with a hand on his collarbone the way he likes, holding Yuri down when he pulls away and Yuri tries to come after him. Yuri reaches up and pulls the tie out of Otabek’s hair so he can sink his hand into it and yank Otabek back in.

“I can’t _believe_ ,” Yuri gasps when Otabek bites his earlobe (the unpierced one), “that you were going to deprive me of _birthday sex_ just because of some insecurity you made up in your head.”

“Hush now,” Otabek growls and throws the blankets on the floor so he can tear Yuri's boxers off and take him in his mouth. 

Yuri suspects it might always be this way: Yuri automatically taking up as much space as possible and then tumbling into anxiety over it, and Otabek never taking more than is expressly given, never overstepping and never asking for more. _Always_ , Yuri thinks and his heart catches at the word and how badly he wants to see them stretch towards the horizon together, forever, and then Otabek does something with his tongue and Yuri doesn't think at all. 

Later, though, after Otabek has fucked him in at least three different positions, keeping Yuri on the edge of orgasm for so long that Yuri sobs, thinking he might fly apart from the sheer pleasure of it, every touch going through him like lightning, Otabek’s sure hands and steady voice the only thing grounding him—after all of that, when Yuri is lying on his stomach and Otabek is practicing his braids in his hair, Yuri says, “I think we should get married.”

Otabek’s hands still in Yuri’s hair. “Did you just _propose?_ ”

Yuri turns over so he can gaze up at Otabek. His face is totally, utterly shocked and Yuri is maybe a little bit offended. “Don't tell me you've never thought about it.”

“I've thought about it, of course, but you just _proposed_.” He keeps saying the word like it’s a frightened woodland creature and might run for the hills at any second. “Didn't you?”

“What if I did?”

“I'm not answering until there's a ring,” Otabek says, but he smiles to soften it. He cups Yuri’s cheek and rubs a thumb over his lips. “Or something that indicates the smallest bit of forethought other than the fact that I just made you come your brains out.”

“You're an asshole,” Yuri tells him, without heat. He turns his face into Otabek’s hand and kisses his palm.

The moment Otabek is asleep, though, Yuri rolls over and grabs his phone. 

**yuri.plisetsky** : SOS please tell me the Katsukis have a trusted family jeweller  
**v-nikiforov** : ??????  
**katsuki.yuuri** : are you asking what i think you're asking  
**yuri.plisetsky** : idk  
**yuri.plisetsky** : what do you think im asking  
**v-nikiforov** : WHAT IS GOING ON  
**katsuki.yuuri** : I believe yura is going to propose to beka  
**v-nikiforov** : WHAT  
**v-nikiforov** : OH MY GOD PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS TRUE OH MY GOD OH MY GOD O H YM GOD  
**yuri.plisetsky** : oh my fucking god i hate both of you i can literally hear you screaming!!!!!!!!  
**yuri.plisetsky** : chill the fuck out or you'll wake him!!!  
**katsuki.yuuri** : you don’t have a fucking leg to stand on after that lengthy performance  
**katsuki.yuuri** : you are so lucky we’re the only other ones in the guest wing  
**yuri.plisetsky** : OH MY GOD I’M GOING TO MURDER BOTH OF YOU  
**v-nikiforov** : How will you get a ring for Beka if you murder us though?!  
**v-nikiforov** : :D  
**katsuki.yuuri** : meet us out front at 8 a.m. we’ll take you to perfect place  
**yuri.plisetsky** : ok  
**yuri.plisetsky** : but if either of you say a single word i WILL murder you  
**v-nikiforov** : No words will be spoken  
**katsuki.yuuri** : we promise  
**yuri.plisetsky** : good  
**yuri.plisetsky** : ok night  
**katsuki.yuuri** : night!  
**v-nikiforov** : Goodnight!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/jstanxietythngs)


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